Alternate Game of Thrones
by AlternateGoT
Summary: An alternate storyline that picks up from Season 7 of HBO's Game of Thrones, with more characters, more political intrigue and a better ending. What if Seasons 7 and 8 didn't happen? What if Gendry wasn't as quick as Usain Bolt, two Stark kids didn't outsmart Littlefinger or Tyrion didn't come up with laughable ideas for Daenerys?
1. Season 7 Episode 1

**1\. The Twins**

The dungeons still stank of death.

As if imprisonment were not enough, Lord Walder Frey had made him suffer the ignominy of smelling him die. There were no torches here – deliberately, he knew – which meant Ser Edmure Tully did not see the captive in the cell in front of him. Neither could he speak with him – the prisoner was well gagged, unable to utter a syllable. _Or were there two? _He would never know.

They died within days of capture. This was possibly years ago. No one bothered clearing out their corpses, perhaps on Lord Walder's commands himself. Despite the time that had passed, the stench of death had never disappeared. Edmure was grateful for that. Every breath he took was a reminder on the vengeance he owed his friends of Frey.

He knew he was kept alive for Tully name alone, although it had been years since he stopped asking what would happen next. Edmure was numb to it. His long wavy hair was a tangled mess, dancing on his shoulder blades, while a massive beard covered his face, making him unrecognizable. All he could do was wait – wait for his moment, wait to exact revenge on all those who wronged his family.

The door opened and Edmure's heart skipped a beat. He had lost all track of time here, yet knew it was too soon for supper. The man held a lantern and the fire was in Edmure's eyes, yet he recognized the voice as soon as it spoke.

"Still alive, _heh?_"

Edmure felt his fists clench, albeit weakly. _He wants me to beg_, he said to himself. _I will not give him the satisfaction. _He could see Lord Walder's face clearer now, thin, droopy eyes, a leering smile, the flab underneath his chin. "_Heh, _I see you now. It must be you. There is no one else in the dungeons, see."

Edmure moved closer to the bars of the cell, looking right into Frey's grey eyes, promising himself never to flinch. Lord Walder hardly noticed his grit. He went on. "Awful, was it not… the Red Wedding? Do you remember it? Do you remember the death of your sister, of your king?"

"Yes." Tully's reply was hoarse. He had not spoken for days.

There was an edge to Lord Walder's voice now, it uncharacteristically rang across the dungeons. "You are the last of them. What can you do, _heh?_ Can you dare fight those who did this to you?"

Edmure was past diplomacy. _If I die, so be it. Better die begging for vengeance than for mercy. _"Dare set me free," he said, "and I will rain seven hells upon your family with as much as a tourney sword. Starting with you, _my Lord_. How does slicing your throat ear to ear sound, if it please you?"

"Sounds good," Frey said, unmasking himself. "But I've already done the second bit for you," the girl underneath added. "You'd best get onto the first."

There was a click, and Edmure's cell swung open.

**2\. The Sunset Sea**

Night had fallen, but the fires lit up the chambers well enough for Daenerys Targaryen to see her allies. Lady Olenna, the last surviving Tyrell, sat at the far end of the table, exhausted enough to sleep any moment. Beside her sat Elara Sand, very much awake, with slits for eyes. Theon and Yara Greyjoy sat opposite the pair, looking the least seasick of the Dragon Council. Beside them was Varys the Spider, papers in his hand, eager to disclose their contents. Grey Worm guarded the door. Closest to Dany was her handmaiden Missandei and her Hand the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. The rocking ship had quenched his lust for wine. _For now._

Before Varys could speak, Yara interjected. "We are almost approaching the Iron Islands, Your Grace. I thank you for holding your end of the bargain."

Daenerys could hear the blood pumping through her. This would be her first test in Westeros, the measure on which her legacy would be judged. Dany found herself more impatient than nervous, and she knew the reason why. They were the three giant-winged creatures sailing above the ship, hungry for fire, hungry for blood. She was the Mother of Dragons, but no Westerosi outside those in this chamber knew that. They would find out soon enough… starting with the ironborn.

She turned to Grey Worm. "Have arrangements been made for battle?"

Before Grey Worm answered, it was the Spider's turn to interject. "They have not, Your Grace."

Dany's eyes narrowed. "Not?"

"It is why I called for the Dragon Council. I have heard news that Euron Greyjoy has left Pyke with his ships. The islands are unarmed, defenseless and ripe for capture."

Yara was surprised. "Why would Euron do such a thing? Why does he not wish to fight for his people?"

Tyrion Lannister chuckled. "My sweet sister Cersei does it again. This war will be easier than I thought."

Varys chimed in. "Tyrion is quite right, Your Grace. Euron has openly sided with Cersei Lannister and, for tactical reasons, moved his men to another location, before your dragons could lay waste to them. I do not know where for certain."

Dany was puzzled. "But where could they go?"

Tyrion's eyes locked hers. "Oh, I have a pretty good guess."

**3\. King's Landing**

"This is madness."

Jaime Lannister and his twin were in the throne room, waiting for court to assemble. Jaime knew it was imperative to change her mind before they did. "Do you actually mean to fight the inevitable? Face facts, Cersei. We lost the gold of Highgarden when you blew Mace and Margaery Tyrell to ashes. Dorne has never been our friend. Winterfell has been captured by another bastard and this one's not our ally. You are proclaimed Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, of which, at best, you rule three. And amidst this are rumors of a Targaryen wench sailing to Westeros with a three-headed dragon. Gossip, I grant you-"

"It's not a three-headed dragon," Cersei retorted, scarce batting an eyelid. "Her name is Daenerys and she has three dragons, hungry to conquer the Crownlands. And I don't mean to fight – I mean to win."

Jaime was incredulous. He used a different tact. "We are surrounded with enemies taking turns to fight for the Iron Throne. King's Landing is on the verge of riot. Even if we surrender, we'll be lucky enough to leave this debacle with our necks intact. This is worse than the War of the Five Kings, without the addition of a Dragon Queen, which I still find hard to believe…"

"Better believe it, Jaime. Qyburn has confirmed the tales."

Jaime was still skeptical, but there were other things to talk about. He had dreaded approaching the subject, but if it would save his sweet sister from suicide, it was worth a try. "We never talked about Tommen," he said. "I know his death has come as a huge shock, but surely you can separate emotion from…"

"You think this stems from our son's death?" Cersei's tone was bitter now, less a lion and more a snake. "Like it or not, war will be upon us. If you wish, you can run off to Casterly Rock, tail between your legs, desperate for peace. Or we can fight our enemies together and make a ballad the bards will sing of for a thousand years. I intend to finish Father's work, whether you join me or not. I suggest you do, before you get your other hand sliced off by some hedge knight."

The slight angered Jaime. "If I leave," he ventured, "who would you even have at your side to survive? Our own kingdom hates us. We have no allies, Cersei!"

"We might," Cersei said, as doors opened and members of the court came flooding in, taking their places. As Jaime took his place as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, his eyes scoured the courtroom, looking for hints of Cersei's cryptic statement. All the faces were familiar, spare one, a grizzly, barbarian of a man, eyes blacker than ravens. He smelled of salt.

"The crown recognizes its ally Euron Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands," Qyburn trotted beside his queen. Jaime's eyes widened.

"Hardly a lord of the Iron Islands if I've left it," Euron grumbled unsmilingly, looking up at the Iron Throne. "Queen Cersei, arrangements have been made. The bulk of the naval forces have moved from Pyke to Dragonstone."

"Good to hear," Cersei said. "I trust you still recall it was your choice to abandon your lands?"

"I'm not like to forget it. Once the war is over, I'll be sure to reclaim the islands from any pretender that may hold it… as long as our plans for marriage remain intact."

"A Lannister always pays their debts," Cersei said. Jaime could scarce believe his ears. _She kept me in the dark on this. I have to say something. _"And why should we trust you?" he heard himself say. "You've been exiled for years, after attacking Lannisport, no less. You left your own people. For what?"

Euron's gaze stayed on Cersei's. He grinned. "In my exile, I've travelled to places even Oldtown never knew existed. I am the captain of the greatest armada Westeros has ever seen. I refuse to squander all that for nothing more than rocks and bird shit."

"Still, humor me. Why would you fight for us when the going gets tough?" Jaime persisted.

Euron's eyes shifted to Jaime's. "Can the going get any tougher for you?"

**4\. Beyond the Wall**

Wintry winds hit them hard, yet all Brandon Stark saw was fire. Lords, ladies, common men writhed into ashes in front of him as the waters lashed the shore with unrelenting ferocity. He saw grasslands filled with flames, heard the screech of beasts and the dying howl of summer, the dream of summer, summer that would never arrive.

He saw Old Nan, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes. She was knitting. "Fear is for the winter, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep." Bran did not hear her. He was too aghast watching her eyes fall off their sockets, even though Old Nan barely noticed them.

Then Meera was there, slapping him all over his face, begging for him to wake up. She looked paler than ever. "You were asleep again," she said, when Bran woke up. "Where had you gone?"

"I- I don't know," Bran said. It did not take him long to realize the tears in his eyes, as if someone had just sliced an onion. His heart was throbbing, composure was alien to him. "It's… it's these visions, Meera. I cannot control them. Every time I sleep, I don't know where I will wake – _if _I will wake." He could not recognize the snowy woods around him. They must have travelled a fair distance while he was under. "How long was I… asleep?"

"A day, maybe two. It is hard to keep track of hours. The sun has not shown itself for a long time." Meera still seemed shaken. "Listen to me, Bran – these dreams, they _have _to be the norm. You're the Three-Eyed Raven now-"

"I know I am!" Bran retorted. "But I didn't ask for any of this." More tears were falling down his cheeks.

"I know you did not," Meera said, afraid she had said the wrong thing. "Jojen used to have the same kind of visions you did. I know it is a lot to take in. I know it may be hard to control them. All I'm saying is… I'm here to help."

"Th- thank you." Bran was shaking, he realized, and not all of it was down to the cold. He regretted his outburst. "How far away are we, anyway?" he said.

"Not a lot," Meera said, her countenance lightening, now that Bran had changed the subject. "Do you see the gleam in front of us?"

Amongst the darkness it was very faint but visible enough. It did not seem far away, but in this weather, Bran knew the journey would take them more than a couple of days. "What is it?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"The Wall," Meera replied eagerly. "Castle Black."

**5\. Winterfell**

Jon Snow knew this was coming.

The lords of the north in front of him were in disorder. Ser Davos Seaworth stood in a corner, brooding. Beside Jon sat Sansa Stark, patient for calm to reign. Jon tried to emulate her. _I must listen to what they say. I must be a better king than I was Lord Commander._

"Wildlings… to the Wall?" Lord Manderly exclaimed. He could have stood in surprise, but hardly did.

"I pray you see the problem here, Your Grace," Lord Glover added, trying to be calmer. "The wildlings have been fighting the Night's Watch for thousands of years. You know this better than anyone. This will be a travesty of traditions. The men in black will not take it well."

Tormund Giantsbane could not hold in his rage. "If we're closer to the dead than you, why are you lot shitting yourselves?"

Jon could hold it no longer. "My lords," he said, and the crowd silenced. "What we are faced with… it begs breaking tradition. This is not a battle between kings, not between clans. There are no wildlings, nor are there men in black. There are men… and then there are monsters. We cannot let the monsters prevail. For that to happen, we must do whatever it takes, no matter the cost."

Lord Petyr Baelish, silent all this while, chimed in. "He happens to be right," he said. "Besides, the wildlings know the Land of Always Winter better than we do. They have fought these creatures longer than we have. The Wall craves their knowledge, their expertise. If we do not unite, there may be no Winterfell to speak of."

Jon was surprised to see Littlefinger stand up for him, after what Sansa had told him about the man. Murmurs of assent followed Petyr's words. Finally, Lyanna Mormont, Lady of the Bear Islands, spoke. "Your Grace has seen things beyond the Wall we once never imagined to be real. Only you know best. If it is the will of the king, Bear Island stands with him."

After Littlefinger and Lyanna, the rest of the bannermen quickly gave their assent. Jon was relieved, but not altogether satisfied. After the Battle of the Bastards, not even five hundred wildlings were alive… and all of them were going to be sent to the Wall. If Jon had to fight another battle, his friends would be far away. He would have to count on the support of his bannermen. _They named me their king, _Jon thought, _but if I ask them to march to their deaths, they may unname me as quickly._

**6\. Winterfell**

Sansa Stark's eyes had never left Littlefinger. Her ears perked when he had gone to the support of Jon. _If we do not unite, there may be no Winterfell_, he had said to the bannermen. Sansa knew Littlefinger to be a man of cunning, but why would he support sending barely a fraction of Jon's army to the north? Surely, if he courted war with the king, his army would easily be defeated by Jon's bannermen. Baelish could have disagreed with Jon and created more confusion, but he didn't.

But did Littlefinger court war with Jon? "I've declared for House Stark for all to hear," he had told her, that day beside the weirwood tree. "The past is gone for good." Baelish wanted the Iron Throne, Sansa knew, but he could not hope to get it without the support of the Starks. Maybe that was why he agreed with Jon Snow?

Jon was a good man, Sansa knew, but she did not want to bother him with the politics of Winterfell, not when he had an army of the undead on his hands. She wanted to speak with someone she could trust, someone who would not spill her secrets in the ears of northern lords.

Sansa found Brienne of Tarth in the courtyard dueling with young Podrick Payne. The lad was holding a steel sword and Brienne wooden, yet poor Podrick looked like he could hardly stand. The moment he saw Sansa walking towards them, he dropped his blade and tried to shy away.

"No, Podrick, stay," said Sansa, slightly amused. Podrick was always scurrying away whenever he saw her. Sansa looked around – the courtyard was not exactly empty, there were people carrying sacks of grain or swords and shields, but the whistling wind meant she would not be overheard. She turned to Lady Brienne. "My lady," she said, her voice low, "I know you do not trust Lord Baelish, but at the council today, did it puzzle you that he agreed with Jon? Why do you think he said that?"

Lady Brienne's normally stern face softened, but before she could speak, Podrick intervened. "Beg pardon, m'lady, I mean, my ma'am," he stuttered, "but Lord Baelish is very popular, I mean, he has a lot of respect, in the way…"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, just the other day, I overheard Lord Manderly… he was saying something to Lord Cerwyn, it was about Lord Littlefinger… I mean, Lord Petyr. You know, I did not mean to hear what he said, but sometimes-"

"What was it?" Sansa's stern query cut through Podrick's stammers like piss through snow.

Podrick was looking at Sansa's feet, clearly regretting entering the conversation, but his speech was improving now. "It was something like… I mean… the long and short of it is, I think the lords like him. As in, respect. They respect Lord Petyr. They value him."

Sansa was puzzled: Littlefinger was lowborn, Lord of the Vale, an outsider. Why would the northern lords care for him? Her puzzlement seemed to show, for Brienne quelled it. "He saved their lives, Lady Sansa," she said simply. "They owe him the north as much as they owe it to you, or your brother."

_Of course._ No wonder the lords of the north fell in line after Baelish gave his assent. Littlefinger could have the ear of most of Winterfell, which seemed frightening. "But if so," she said, "why not use it to his advantage? Why agree with Jon?"

"If I may, my Lady," said Brienne, who seemed equally lost in thought. "Lord Baelish, whatever we may think of him, is helping Winterfell with his forces. His army may help us in the Long Night. He agreed with your brother's commands when he was free not to." She paused, as if it was not her place to say what she wanted. "Sometimes… sometimes there are people you think you know, but you may not have known them at all. Sometimes what you know of a person is different from what others wish upon them."

Sansa was sharp. "You seem to be talking from experience."

**7\. King's Landing**

"When I was made Commander of the City Watch, I thought I'd have more respect on the streets," Bronn said, still massaging the scar on his cheek.

"I did not call you for that," Jaime said curtly. "We pay you well. That should be all the honor you need."

"Never cared for more," said Bronn with a nasty grin, "though it would be nice to lay with a whore not trying to kill me."

Jaime sighed. Not more than a few days ago, Bronn entered a brothel to repose from the growing chill winter brought. Unfortunately, his coin was wasted on a wench who, in the thick of it, drew a dagger and tried to slay him. Bronn escaped with a slash on his cheek, but the girl was not so lucky herself. Jaime wondered what Ser Gregor Clegane was doing with her now.

"That whore," Jaime said. "Didn't she say she worked with the Righteous Saviors of the Seven?"

Bronn nodded. "That rebel faith, yes. I hear they steal the ashes of the Sept of Baelor and scatter them over the corpse of a gold cloak. I have already lost nine-and-twenty cloaks to the cunts. Sounds like a shit way to die."

"That's why I called you," Jaime said. "Cersei… our queen wants you to escort Septa Unella to the ruins of Baelor. Take as many men as you need."

"Unella?" Bronn could not hide his interest. "The people worshipped the Faith Militant. If they see Unella in the state that madman has left her in, there will be riots. I'd have to stop going to brothels."

"Do as you are told."

**8\. The Riverlands**

Escaping the Twins for Arya Stark was easy. The hard part was to come next.

"_A girl is Arya Stark, and she is heading for Winterfell."_

Arya Stark could not forget her purpose. She wanted to go back to Winterfell, as she remembered telling Jaqen H'ghar in the Hall of Many Faces. But she knew the Faceless Men would not let her leave that easily. Arya Stark remembered Jaqen's words: "A girl cannot leave for Winterfell yet. A girl is needed. She is expected to give gifts to the Many-Faced God… and only _she_ can give these particular gifts."

At the time, the girl named Arya Stark remembered asking, "Who is it? Who expects me to give these gifts?"

"No one," Jaqen had said simply.

Arya Stark knew the names of the people she was told to kill. She had killed some of them already. She remembered slicing the throat of Lord Walder Frey, after she had cooked his children in the pie. _Three names for the Many-Faced God. But that's not all._

A girl could not kill more people than she was told to, but that did not stop the girl named Arya to free Ser Edmure. It was justice, she knew, justice for the Red Wedding, justice for her mother, justice for Robb. The little girl in Arya Stark wanted to kill the queen, kill Ser Ilyn, kill all of them and head back to Winterfell… but she couldn't. A girl had gifts to give, and only after that would she be free.

Arya Stark headed west.

**9\. King's Landing**

A horde of angry faces stared Cersei Lannister, but none dared move a muscle. Cersei had chosen the battlefield, and she chose it well. Standing on the ruins of Baelor with her gold cloaks, she reminded everyone who she was, what she had done. _I am Lord Tywin Lannister's daughter. _Not too long ago they hurled trash at her and called her a whore as she walked past them, naked to the bone. Today, Ser Gregor Clegane's visage was warning enough.

Amongst the crowd, Cersei's sight caught many wearing patched grey garbs: Qyburn had said that was the color of the Righteous Saviors. _Good. I want them to know. Let them see what I think of their faith._

"Before you," she said, motioning to the bloody, naked form of Septa Unella, "stands a member of the Faith Militant." She savored the shock and horror on their faces. "For months, she locked me in a dark cell and starved me to her pleasure."

She pointed to the eight-foot man beside her. "This is Ser Gregor Clegane. For weeks, he has tortured, raped and forced her to stay alive on my command… even after she begged for mercy. But I am a merciful woman." She snapped her fingers.

Ser Gregor's hand clamped the head of Septa Unella. While the septa screamed, begging to break free, only Ser Gregor's fingers tightened, while he stood as still as a mountain. Blood began to flow from her nose, from her ears, her mouth. One of the smallfolk covered her eyes. A gold cloak punched her in the stomach.

"I command you to watch," said Cersei to the crowd. Unella's throat was too choked with blood for her to scream. It was not long until they heard the splat. Ser Gregor's fingers finally met. As he held up the lifeless figure, Cersei said, "I did not like Septa Unella. She wasted my time. Now, I have a war to win, kingdoms to end and a legacy to sustain."

Ser Gregor flung the corpse among the crowd. The people were too afraid to move away from it.

"Do not waste my time."


	2. Season 7 Episode 2

**1\. The Riverlands**

_Walder Frey is dead._

Ser Jammos Frey knew that even being the thirteenth son of late Lord Walder, distant in the line of succession, would not save his life. The old man's body hanging limp on the ramparts of the Twins signaled bloodshed between Frey brothers, all desperate to be crowned the next Lord of the Trident. Ser Jammos had no interest in being lord, so he, with his stepbrother Ser Jared Frey, fled the Twins with the meager forces Jared could muster.

The pair were on their way to Seagard, a castle not many leagues south of the Twins. Sixty sworn men followed them in formidable winter, low on food, low on sleep. "Who do you think killed him?" Jammos asked Ser Jared, firstborn son of Walder's second wife.

Jammos tried to keep the chill from his voice, but Jared was good at sensing fear… and great at tormenting him for it. "I can guess," he said, his grin malicious, enjoying knowing what his stepbrother did not. "It is the same man we are to meet at Seagard. Maybe he did it to become the next Lord of the Trident. Maybe he will do you the same. After all, these sixty men are sworn to me. What use does he have of you?"

Jared let Jammos wallow before chuckling again. "Relax, brother. Once we reach Seagard, I will see to it Ser Hosteen Frey makes good use of you. Too much Frey blood has been spilled."

_And there is more to come, _Jammos could not help but think. Lord Walder's death was the beginning of battles with no end in sight. He could not even remember which Freys were still alive. There was him and Jared, marching to Seagard before snow could stop them. There was Ser Hosteen Frey, the knight of great repute, garrisoned in Seagard. And there were the three Freys currently holding the Twins – Ser Emmon Frey, heir to Lord Walder, his sister Perriane and their cocky nephew Rhaegar Frey, the fool wearing a dragon's name.

Emmon held most of the forces, but Ser Hosteen was the better commander. Instead of pledging fealty to Emmon, Jared had convinced him to turn to Hosteen instead. "Emmon was a favourite of Lord Walder. It is said they hatched the Red Wedding together. Do you really want to ally yourself with such a plague?"

Their men were tired, Jammos knew. So was he, but Jared gave them no choice. When one of them complained, he told them, "You want to rest? Feel free. If we need meat, so will we." Jared was not tired, but it seemed like he was the only one. Jammos was ready to collapse near a tree and let snow bury him.

Tired bodies, tired minds… it was no wonder few heard the hooves charge down upon them. If they had reacted quicker, perhaps they could have put up a fight. Instead, Jammos watched with horror as their men were cut down with ease. Most of them yielded before the men. Some were eager to die: they lazily drew swords before mercifully being stabbed in the heart. Jammos wished to fight, but found his legs to be made of stone.

Jared never gave in easy. Jammos saw him slash the legs of a horse and kill its rider. He saw Jared duel two swordsmen at once, gash one's throat. He saw Jared trip over snow bright as blood. He saw three hooded riders dismount from their horses, walk toward the fallen Frey and lay their swords in him. As Jared lay dead, one of the hooded men saw Jammos. Before long, they were walking toward him like omens of death. Jammos was too tired to fight. Death was preferable.

The men removed their hoods. Before Jammos stood Ser Emmon, his face bearded, scarred but grinning. Beside him, his nephew Rhaegar was visibly pleased to have blood on his sword, while Lady Perriane stood beside them both, fidgeting with her gold chain. She looked different in battle gear, yet even with her black hair hidden behind winter wear, was unmistakably beautiful.

"Brother," began Emmon, somewhat cheerily, "it looks like things are not going well for you. Maybe it can, if-"

"We want to know Hosteen's battle plans," Rhaegar interjected. "That, or your life." He pointed at his bloody sword.

In spite of everything, Jammos could not help smile. Rhaegar Frey was never good at negotiation. "Would if I could," he said wearily. "But Hosteen only trusted Jared with such plans. I know naught of it."

"The hard way, is it?" started Emmon, his smile waning. He drew his sword but was interrupted again, this time by Perriane. "I doubt he lies, my lord," she said. "Hosteen is too smart to share secrets with him. Jammos is the worst of us Freys. He does not even deserve your blade."

Jammos was grateful for Perriane. If not for her, the Frey army would not have left him, deserted in the middle of the woods, ripe for death. Exhausted, Jammos found a tree not bathed in blood to rest under. He imagined the dreams he would see.

**2\. Winterfell**

Commerce had returned to the streets of Winterfell. Winter was upon them, but the northerners knew how to cope. Sansa Stark, with Jon beside her saw the market square flooded with people, buying the last harvests. Once muddy streets had turned snowy white. A few villagers looked keenly at their rulers, but the sight of the direwolf prevented them from going further. Elsewhere, a few boys took turns at hitting a wooden sword at a hanging scarecrow, playing war.

Then one saw Jon and told the others. "The Bastard, the Bastard!" they yelled, but the shouts were endearing. Like little kids they flocked around the horses, unafraid of Ghost, trying to shake the hand of the King in the North before they were shooed away. Jon let them through, overwhelmed. Some noticed 'Lady Sansa' too, but most only had eyes for Jon. "I'm a bastard meself, m'lord," said a boy eagerly, who could not have been older than Rickon, donning fur twice his size. As Jon ruffled the snow off his hair, another asked, "Your Grace, is it true you came back to life?"

The attention seemed to be making his brother uneasy, so Sansa eventually saw the children away. Soon enough, it was only them and Ghost. They kept trotting the streets, but Jon seemed in another world, smiling to himself. "They are good people," he finally said, voice full of heart and hope. It broke Sansa to break it.

"Jon, there's a reason I asked you to ride with me outside castle walls. There are things you should know about Petyr Baelish."

Jon listened with intent as Sansa spoke about Littlefinger's increasing influence among the northern lords. In fact, she spoke about everything… Joffrey, Lysa Arryn, all of it. She prayed that if not Lady Brienne, Jon would see what she meant. _Jon is king. He needs all the counsel he can get._

Sansa's monologue was met with a long pause. Finally, Jon asked, "How long have you known this man, Baelish?"

"King's Landing. He's been close to me ever since." _And he may love me. _For some reason, Sansa left that part out.

But oddly, Jon appeared to guess. "I don't know who Lord Baelish is and I cannot guess. He seems to be a clever politician and a very wealthy man. Such men can be our greatest enemies, but they can also be useful allies. He had a chance to thwart us and he did not. The reason, Sansa, could be _you_."

"Me?" she asked, surprised.

"Love can change a man," he said simply, yet unable to suppress a grin.

_He's a fighter, a killer, a king, but in his heart he is still a boy. _"Jon, I know you keep your faith in people-"

"Maybe you should."

Sansa let out an angry chuckle. "The things I have seen make that impossible."

**3\. The Riverlands**

Melisandre was at peace.

The ride south of Winterfell was stormy, but she never needed protection from the cold. The winds eventually killed her horse, but she always found the coin to buy another by offering herself at brothels, as long as the men spilled their seeds on her stomach.

She was on the outskirts of a forest close to the Cape of Eagles, jogging her horse forward, waiting for the moment to arrive. Melisandre had seen it in the flames. She hoped it would change, that she had misinterpreted them, but knew that to not be likely.

It was not long until they arrived. Melisandre heard them before she saw, voices full of merriment and joy amidst the cold. There were eight of them, she saw, youthful boys and girls. Some were pushing a wayn full of rare grass and hay, while others sat on it. Many ignored her as they went past. One broke away from the pack with such hush none of the others even noticed. She was not old. Her face was wrinkled and saggy, eyes alert. They both waited until the rest departed.

As soon as they were out of earshot, the woman pounced on Melisandre with ferocious dexterity, pinning her to the snow. Her eyes were full of rage, boring into hers… but Melisandre was at peace.

The woman seemed to hesitate. "Don't," said the fire priestess. "If anyone can, it's you. Few possess a fire brighter than yours, Arya Stark."

**4\. Pyke**

Never did Pyke look more somber. Salt waves lashed the shore with fury, but the ironborn themselves looked defeated. When they saw the ships, the small army Euron had left ran to the shores with sword and steel, ready for battle and noble death, until they saw the beasts. Ironborns were fighters at heart, but Daenerys Targaryen's three dragons made them see sense.

Before long, Dany was standing in the middle of a circle with Yara Greyjoy, Theon, Tyrion and Missandei. Ironborn gathered around them, but none dared attack. Even though Drogon had flown away shortly after they docked, the Dothraki and Unsullied were enough to keep the locals in line. Them, Rhaegal and Viserion.

"You all stand in the presence of Daenerys of the House Targaryen," Missandei began, "First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons."

It seemed to Daenerys that the ironborn only registered the last phrase. It brought groans and grunts from some places, screams from others. "These men are savages," she thought. "All they understand is savagery."

"Ironborn," she began, her voice loud and clear, "Westeros has bled enough. It is ruled by a cruel queen, a queen who cares not for Pyke, who tempted Euron Greyjoy to turn traitor to his own kin. I bring vengeance. I bring peace and prosperity for all.

"We must all do our part. No more raping, no more reaving, no more paying the iron price. Yara Greyjoy will be your new ruler, and I your Queen. Join me today, and we shall step into a better world together. Does anyone stand in defiance?"

There was silence. A man broke the circle to face her. He had a nasty cut across his cheek, and looked smaller than most ironborns, but seemed to command the respect of his folk. "My name is Harrag," he boomed, "and when Euron left us, I was the one who led my men. I have no problem with Yara taking that place. What I have a problem with is _you_, the silver-haired hag from nowhere who thinks she can tell us how to live." He spat at the ground. "You think the Targaryens have been good to us?"

At this point Theon suddenly interjected. "You be good to us, and they – we'll be good to you."

Harrag and the others paused. "Little Theon, is that you?" he finally said. "The Mother of Dragons thought Theon Turncloak would persuade us to bend the knee? No wonder she wants to cut our cocks off!" His comment was met with huge roars.

Dany felt her rage boiling. "Are you refusing to obey me?"

"I will not yield to you, nor call you my queen," said Harrag. "The ironborn are their own ruler!"

"Your Grace," started Tyrion, but Daenerys had had too much. She looked at Viserion.

It took only a word for the laughter to die. As Harrag burned in front of his friends, yelling for mercy, all he got was a snap from Viserion, who eventually gobbled him in front of a silent audience. It did not take long for everyone to bend the knee to Yara Greyjoy and the Mother of Dragons.

**5\. King's Landing**

"A fortnight? Sounds ambitious," said Tycho Nestoris, stroking his beard.

The Iron Bank were low on patience, Cersei knew. She also knew what happened when they ran out of it. "On the contrary," she said, keeping her cool, sipping wine. "My Small Council has gotten smaller since the, ah, _tragedy _at Baelor. Pycelle gone, Mace Tyrell dead, Queen Margarey burned… only Qyburn remains to aid me. This could have been arranged sooner."

Nestoris smiled in that snakelike way he did. "I understand. You will have your fortnight, but no longer, I'm afraid." His smile grew wilier. _Yes, I know what that means. Now get out of my chambers before I set Ser Gregor on you._

Jaime was predictably aghast at hearing the news. He kept reminding her of what the bank would do if they did not pay, as if the queen needed reminding. She was Lord Tywin's daughter. She had made mistakes with the Faith Militant and the Tyrells before, but no more.

When it became clear to her brother that Cersei was not listening, Jaime spoke about something else. "There is quiet in the streets," he said. "For now," he added hastily. "But they need food, and even more, they need assurances that their throats will not be slit in the middle of the night. We cannot rule an empire on fear alone."

Cersei disagreed. The Targaryens were nothing without their dragons. Cersei did not have one, but that would not stop her. She played to win.

**6\. Pyke**

Tyrion Lannister had to say something. The Dragon Council was in session, everyone was around: Elara Sand, Lady Olenna, Yara Greyjoy and Varys discussing battle strategies in earnest. Theon was not here, now that Yara was Lady of the Iron Islands.

Daenerys seemed eager to march to the Crownlands. "We have to strike fear into the heart of Cersei Lannister. The longer she sits on the Iron Throne, the worse things will get. Innocents are dying under her rule. The people need justice."

_Tell that to Harrag, _Tyrion wanted to say, but thought better of it. The more he heard her, the lesser certain he felt about the future. Daenerys would win the war, certainly – the odds were too much in her favour to fail. Attacking King's Landing before Cersei had time to consolidate her feeble excuse of an empire was crucial. It was why Tyrion agreed with Dany when she ended the council with sending Lady Olenna and Elara Sand back to Highgarden and Dorne, to prepare to march from the south.

Funnily, the war worried Tyrion the least. He was eager to see Cersei's horrified countenance when the Red Keep burned brighter than the Sept of Baelor. What worried him was what came after. _She made an example out of the ironborn for simply defying her, and by the looks of it, she feels nothing? _Tyrion was her Hand, it was his job to give sound counsel, but would she heed it? Was the promise of Varys about Daenerys true, or a cruel jape he could not laugh at without enough wine in his belly?

"We will march from Pyke to King's Landing as soon as we are ready," Daenerys said, bringing Tyrion back to reality. Varys was staring at him intently, hinting at Tyrion to say something. He knew exactly what that was.

"If we are to attack from the north," Tyrion pointed out, "the way from Pyke to King's Landing is tricky, Your Grace. Anchoring around the Riverlands is a risk with Freys fighting. If they slit throats at weddings, I would not want to see what they offer in combat. That leaves us options to ship to Barrowton or Flint's Finger, both of which are in the north and held by Ramsay Bolton. Both grim choices."

"Ramsay Bolton is dead," Varys said, although Tyrion already knew that. He wanted Varys to say that, and what he said next. "He was defeated by the Starks, who have now crowned a bastard as their king."

"A bastard king?" said Daenerys. "Very well. I shall soon put this pretender to heel."

"We would all enjoy that, not less your ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror," Tyrion said hastily, hoping it was not too late to change her mind. "All he wished to do was bring pretenders to heel. Dorne was the only kingdom he failed to capture, though. The Dornish did not bend the knee, the story goes, and when they tried to take it by force, they also killed a dragon.

"The Bastard of Winterfell is a bastard, but he does unify the North. Perhaps we should offer terms of alliance than terms of peace. Let's save that dragonfire for tastier targets, like my sweet sister."

"The Imp is right," Yara said coarsely. "Harrag was no royalty but burning him alive was foolish. Waging wars with the Great Houses will win you more foes than wars."

'_The Imp' _is_ right. The Imp also made you say that for me, so thank you for that. _Tyrion's suggestion coupled with Yara's accusation seemed to alarm their queen, but to her credit, she kept her cool well. "Blood needs to be shed for peace," she said, "…but I understand what you mean. What do you propose?"

Alliances were best made with weddings, Tyrion tried to hint, but Daenerys refuted the idea of marrying a man she did not know. She did agree to send Winterfell a raven. It was fair to dissuade marriage, Tyrion thought, since no one in the room knew what the once seventeen-year-old Jon Snow, a man who once thought the Night's Watch would give him glory, had become.

**7\. Winterfell**

The sun had not yet broken the blue. It was a clear enough sky for it, not that wildlings would struggle in storms and sleet. For people awoken before dawn and about to be sent to the edge of the world to fight ice monsters, they were surprisingly chatty. There were hundreds of them, Jon Snow knew, but they may yet not be enough.

"Make sure they get to Castle Black safely," he told Tormund Giantsbane. "Try not to get yourself killed too," he added, smiling.

"We'll make it well enough, Jon Snow," Tormund said lazily, the mist escaping his mouth whiter than Ghost. "It is not the ride to the Wall that worries me."

"I did not think anything worried you."

"That's where you would be wrong, see? I'd rather have me pecker cut out than go back to Hardhome. But Tormund Giantsbane is no coward, and neither are me mates. We all owe the Night King a thing or two… and it helps that a wall of ice stands in the way. You have fought for us, Jon Snow. Now we are even."

The sun rose, setting alight Tormund Giantsbane's hair, redder than fire. It was time for them to part. "We are twenty-thousand strong at Winterfell," Jon reminded him. "The moment there is trouble, send ravens to us at once."

"Ravens?" Tormund roared with laughter in the dark. "I think the rings of sword and steel will be heard well enough across the north, _har_!"

The last Jon Snow saw of Tormund before he went back to Winterfell was him leading the wildlings into the skyline. All he could see was his red hair glistening in the sun. For a second, Jon was reminded of Ygritte. He pushed her out of his head. _She is dead,_ he reminded himself. _And we may follow._

**8\. King's Landing**

Jaime Lannister knew it was a risk sharing his sister's bed. They had few friends in court, and all it took was one mistaken glance by a handmaid for rumours to turn into facts. But Cersei was queen, her word was law, and Jaime felt oddly scared to defy it.

She had finally entered the room. The day was long, yet it looked like it did not take any toll on her. _She must really enjoy thinking she's the best there ever was. Almost like me before I lost my sword hand._

One look at Jaime in bed, and Cersei disrobed. Her eyes stayed fixed on her brother as clothes fell away besides, revealing nothing underneath. There was no hair, not even on her sex. Cersei still wore the crown.

Jaime's cock was stirring, but his heart was full of fear. Before Cersei could do anything more, he found himself looking for excuses. On other days, when Jaime wanted out he said so, but this was before the Sept of Baelor burst into flames.

He managed to get away from the room without getting Cersei suspicious, walking away towards nowhere in particular. Fear gave way to anger, and then self-loathing. _You are bold enough to slay a king, but not enough to fuck a queen? _

Grabbing his sword, Jaime made his way to the godswood. He found the tree he was looking for, the bark slashed and torn from previous marks. In a few weeks, the tree would be certain to fall. Wordlessly, he began swinging away. In the dead of the night, Jaime thought his blows and grunts were loud enough to wake all the gods.

**9\. The Riverlands**

A girl had gifts to give… but not hers.

The Red Woman sat in the inn the girl named Arya Stark took her, waiting. Arya's heart wrestled with her head. _She took Gendry, she is on my list!_ said a side. Surely, this was the work of the gods. They had given Arya a present, the opportunity to slice the red bitch's throat like she did Meryn Trant's.

_But there is only one God. The Many-Faced kind._

"I am at peace," repeated the Red Woman. Her eyes betrayed her, gleaming, yet not as much as the ruby against her throat. "I have done my duty. Now you must do yours."

She was right in front of her. Arya's Needle glistened in her hand. Braavos was a world away, far from where she stood. No one needed to know, not even the gods.

_You will know._

A girl could not do it. She dropped her sword and began to turn away.

"I hoped it would be different," the Red Woman said after her. "There are battles beyond yours that need to be fought. Pledge your cause to them, before you die fighting your own. If the living are to lose, the night will be dark…"

A girl had left the room in disgust by then. _The craven. Thought I would take her life as a gift._ Arya Stark had other gifts in mind.

When the innkeeper found the body, he wondered why a woman already as close to death as this one gave up. Maybe it was the winds.


	3. Season 7 Episode 3

**1\. Pyke**

Varys had risked everything for her, but now he was not certain why.

The fact that Daenerys Targaryen was committed to rebuilding a world meant she had to be better than Cersei Lannister or her father. But if means justified the end, Maegor the Cruel would be known as Maegor the Great. Even the purest of goals did not excuse burning dissenters to dust. Tyranny must not be rewarded with blind loyalty.

He knew Tyrion Lannister shared his qualms, as did Yara Greyjoy. It was with them Varys spoke. All things considered, Yara seemed to be on the queen's side. "Fear is no way to rule Westeros," she said, "but it is the right way to rule Pyke. The ironborn believe they are all kings, and the only way to negotiate with a king is to show them you have a stronger army."

"The ironborn, yes," said Tyrion, sipping wine, "but not so much the northmen, whom our dear ruler seemed eager to slaughter. To her credit, she did listen to us and chose to send the Starks a raven instead of a dragon."

"And what happens the day she does not?" contested Varys. "Power blinds people quicker than greyscale drives a man insane. After she butchered those men in Meereen, I could not dare question her decision to make Daario Naharis warden of Dragon's Bay, for I knew not how she would react. As long as she is mother to dragons, that power will remain. How can we know when our counsel incurs her wrath?"

"Because it is my job not to burn my advisors, Lord Varys," came a voice from behind, startling them all.

Fortunately for Tyrion, it seemed like Daenerys Targaryen had only heard what Varys had to say. Before Varys knew it, he was in the queen's chamber with Grey Worm, wondering if he would exit it alive. "No one sings songs for a Spider because no one likes them, Lord Varys," she began. "You tell me people drink secret toasts to my health, yet poison my Hand's minds with tales of tyranny. I burn people who mock my men in front of many, as Harrag did Theon. I do not burn them for speaking their mind," she said, although her tone suggested she dearly wished to. "If you feel I am closer than my father than you would like, instead of shirking in the shadows like a spider, I command you to lay your concerns at my feet."

As Varys consented to those terms, he could not help but feel impressed. Other kings would have chopped his head as an example to the others, but she did not. He may have lost some of her trust and regaining it would take time, but it may all be worth it in the end.

**2\. Meereen**

When Goghor the Giant was raised from Mereenese pit-fighter to protector of His Magnificence Daario Naharis, he thought the job would be more honorable than standing in sweltering summer. There he was, guarding the entrance to the pyramid where inside His Radiance, under guise of ruling, munched on grapes from Qarth and fucked whores from Lorath.

Beside him stood Brown Ben Plumm, captain of the Stormcrows, reduced to standing meekly at thresholds. For his apparent fall in stature, the old man seemed merry. Whenever Goghor probed him, he simply said, "The pay is good, trouble is scarce, and I am an old man now. There are old sellswords and bold sellswords, but no old bold sellswords."

Goghor the Giant was not old yet. His heart yearned for combat, but combat was hard to find in this city. After the dragons had bathed the ships of the Masters in flames, no one dared defy Daenerys Targaryen's men. Even crime was poor, save the odd drunkard.

_Here comes another now,_ Goghor mused as a hooded figure approached the men, seeking audience with Naharis. Before Goghor could swing his finely sharpened arakh in warning, Ben Plumm motioned him not to. He seemed to recognize the voice. "And what brings you here, friend?" he asked. "Do you carry a message from the queen?"

"I do not," replied his slow, somber voice. "I come of my own accord." He removed his hood to reveal a cracked, stony visage. "Be careful not to touch me."

**3\. The Riverlands**

"Seagard is only a few nights away, and so is vengeance," he thought, riding abreast Ser Emmon and Perriane.

Rhaegar Frey tossed his silky hair in the wind, which he had grown like his namesake. He glanced at his own face through the polished sword on his hands, picturing driving it through the eye of Ser Hosteen himself. When Rhaegar confided his fantasies to his aunt Perriane, she warned him instead of Hosteen's ruthless streak in battle. Rhaegar did not need much reminding. _Hosteen killed my father. For that, he will pay._

"We've been walking in the snow for hours, m'lord!" yelled a soldier at them, disturbing his dreams. "When are we to rest?"

"You'll get your rest when you bring me Ser Hosteen's head!" Rhaegar replied with equal spite. The soldiers were getting increasingly impatient to head back to the Twins. None of them cared for the sweet smell of blood, the thrill of conquest, the glory of the name – all they wanted was warm ale and a hearth.

It was down to him to uphold the name of House Frey. Emmon was heir to Lord Walder, Rhaegar knew, but too bloodthirsty and violent to rule. When one of his men's ears numbed with frostbite, he chopped it off and devoured it to save supplies. Such men oft mistook ruthlessness with cruelty.

Rhaegar's father and Emmon's brother Ser Aenys would have been a good king, were he not murdered by Hosteen. With him dead, and if Emmon were to die, Rhaegar would be next in line to become Lord of the Trident. After Rhaegar slew his enemy at Seagard, Emmon had to follow. It would be for the good of the Riverlands.

When the sky darkened, they finally laid camp in the snow. Rhaegar waited until he was certain everyone was in their tents before he secretly entered Perraine's. She was already waiting for him inside, legs spread apart, wearing nothing but the gold chain. Deep black hair tumbled over her shoulder, as sweeping eyelashes looked at him in anticipation.

Rhaegar quickly undressed to join her. The war was nearer, the cold was fearsome, and she never looked more beautiful. It ordinarily took him around five-and-ten thrusts to spill his seed in her, but he imagined today it would take only four. As Perriane took him in her mouth, it only took her few moments before Rhaegar told her to call him her king. Perriane withdrew for her lips to part into speech. "Not on my life."

Before he knew it, Perriane had a blade in her hand, which she swiftly slashed against his parts. Rhaegar did not even get the chance to yell in agony; she clamped one firm palm on his mouth, while the other stabbed daggers at his gut. "You think you were fit to rule?" Perriane told him, while he failed to break free. "Emmon and I used your vengeance to take your army. And when Hosteen lays dead at my feet, Emmon will have no use for me as well."

By then, Rhaegar was not listening, his eyes on Perriane's hair. Even when matted with blood, it was the most beautiful thing he had seen.

**4\. Winterfell**

Wyman Manderly seldom stood, yet his voice boomed off the ancient walls of Winterfell all the same. "There was a time," he was saying, "when the Boltons and the Freys choked loyalty from this land. They crawled around these very walls like roaches, sitting on the same seat my king does today. It took the last Starks, an army of wildlings and our friends from the Vale to snatch the north back from its traitors." He nodded at Baelish, who nodded back. "The Boltons are dead, and when our friends of Frey finish their bloody war, we will be back for them. The north remembers… and it also will not forget the Targaryens, Greyjoys and Lannisters."

Lord Manderly's comments were met with general assent. Cerwyn chipped in. "The greatest battle is yet to come, the battle for the dawn. We cannot lay in bed with old foes hoping they help our quest, no less with fools who style themselves dragon queens. There is no margin for error."

"I agree, Lord Cerwyn," Jon Snow said. "There is no margin for error. When you named me king, I promised to lead my men as well as I can. I will fight the White Walkers, no matter the odds, but the odds are against us. Twenty-thousand strong cannot hold the Wall against the dead. But if the rumors of a three-headed dragon at Pyke is true, destroying them would be easy."

The lords of Winterfell remained in disarray, but even when Ghost, curled beside Jon, was growling, Sansa remained silent, neither agreeing with Jon nor with the bannermen. Jon was adamant. _Dragon or no dragon, Daenerys Targaryen holds an army. This battle is not between Starks or Targaryens or Lannisters, it is between men and monsters._

"If I may, Your Grace," said Petyr Baelish, who seemed equally lost in thought until then. "We cannot know for certain if an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen will last for years. What we do know is that we need her men, and her men alone. Westeros knows northmen to be loyal, honorable folk. No one would consider that the children of Lord Eddard Stark would, say, dispose of her after Winterfell has made good use of her armies…"

"_No!"_ the word was out of Jon Snow before he thought it. Even the other lords of Winterfell looked aghast by this consideration. _Sansa was right about him._ All Petyr Baelish cared for was breaking alliances and creating chaos. Jon would not have the Stark name tainted with such mud.

Sansa, however, looked more thoughtful than ever. "Why not?" she said finally. "We owe the Targaryens a debt, but we cannot meet them in field. If my time at King's Landing taught me anything, it was that some wars were won with swords and shields, others with letters and quills. Cersei will do anything she can to keep her throne, and Daenerys will do anything to win it. For the sake of survival, why should we not?"

The lords began mulling the idea over, even warming to it. Jon could not believe his ears. He knew, as king, that he could forbid his men from considering this proposition, but part of him refrained. _You imposed the wildlings on the Night's Watch, and where did that path take you?_ Jon promised to think the matter over. As the lords of Winterfell disbanded, he wondered what decision he would come to, and how they would react.

**5\. Winterfell**

Jon was telling her that they ought to remain united in front of the lords of Winterfell, but Sansa Stark was not listening. She had to make her brother see sense.

"You are one of the bravest men I will ever know," she said, changing track. "You have fought monsters people did not believe existed. But war is more than painting your friends in white, your enemies in black and facing them with swords. We cannot know if we can trust Targaryens, Lannisters and Greyjoys. Even our father broke fealty to Aerys Targaryen when he had to."

"That was different," Jon said. "If Daenerys were to kidnap you, Winterfell would raise its banners in equal fury. Yes, we need to make this alliance for a better chance at survival, but I do not mean to betray it the moment the war is over. It is not the Stark way-"

"And what is the Stark way?" Sansa snapped suddenly, hot tears reaching her eyes. "Doing your duty to a monarch who has no interest in being one, like our father did? Keeping trust in Roose Bolton like Robb? We do not even know where his body lays!"

There was silence. Sansa regretted yelling at her brother, but at least Jon was listening now. "I loved my father," she said, voice lowering, "and I loved my brother, but they made stupid mistakes and paid the price. I will not see that happen to you nor me."

**6\. Meereen**

Naharis, sitting on the throne where she once did, seemed plumper than when Jorah Mormont last saw him. He knew it best not to comment on appearance, for Jorah himself looked a world away. His weaker hand was all but lost to the greyscale, greyscale that was beginning to touch his cheeks. Even though the disease had reached his chest and head, today was not the day Jorah was to lose his mind. He wondered if it was tomorrow.

"The gods have not looked upon you kindly," Naharis said from his throne. "Neither has our queen. Do you have a message from her? Does she wish me to rule the Red Waste as well?"

The tone was cheery, but the jabs were not subtle enough for Jorah to miss. He was an aged man, staring death in the face; such pretensions had little patience for him. "Our queen commanded you to do your duty. Dragon's Bay is her legacy."

"It is _her_ legacy, yes," retorted Daario, "My legacy is to fight and drink and fuck, but while she battles for the throne of Westeros, I sit listening to problems on grain and gold. I refuse to be left behind when a great battle brews a world away. I have met many people on my travels, one of them a Westerosi lord who will offer me more than Daenerys has. Remind our queen that I am a sellsword, and sellswords can offer themselves to Greyjoys just as well as Targaryens."

"I am not here as her envoy." Jorah would have dearly loved to tell Daario what he thought of Euron Greyjoy, but believed it best not to argue with the man who commanded the armies of the city. "The rebirth of Meereen, the freeing of the slaves, all of it has made Meereen the light of trade and commerce. My grayscale has reached beyond Westerosi maesters. If I am to live, I may have to put my faith in fire priestesses and sorcerers."

Daario seemed disappointed that Jorah was not sent by the queen. Nevertheless, his countenance softened. "There is a _maegi_," he offered, "who claims to be from Sothoryos, versed in bloodmagic. Maybe she can be of more help to you than the queen has been to us."

**7\. Pyke**

For a brief moment, when he and his sister stood in front of the Dragon Queen at Meereen, Theon Greyjoy believed he belonged. He thought he could renounce Stark and Greyjoy names and give counsel, except Daenerys Targaryen needed Theon's ships more than his words. Now that Yara was named Wardeness she attended all Dragon Councils, leaving Theon alone with the people of Pyke.

Theon wanted to be brave, but had he lost the chance to prove himself? What could Theon speak of? Losing Winterfell to the Boltons? Rescuing Sansa Stark from Ramsay? The latter a commendable feat, but his audience cared naught for either family.

The feast around him was not loud enough to him to escape his void. Everywhere Theon saw, there was hate. Everyone knew who he was, though none dared say it for fear of going the way of Harrag. Then a serving girl with startling eyes of grey looked at him piercingly with both and called him a traitorous cunt, before slamming his goblet on his table.

Now that the ice was broken, every other Greyjoy greeted Theon Turncloak. Theon kept drinking his ale, hands shivering, but the insults would not stop. As men and boys alike found joy in japing him, fear turned to rage. "I am the queen's trusted man," he wanted to yell at them, but knew the ironborn would call his lie. Instead, he grabbed a serving boy by the hair. "What did you say to me?" he demanded, voice cracking.

"I said," the boy repeated even louder, the laughter still in his eyes, "I hope the ale gives you the courage your cock cannot!" As ironborn men laughed around him, Theon knew what he had to do.

But try as he might, Theon could not find the dagger around his waist, turning the laughter to hysterics. The boy looked scared, but the rest of the ironborn were howling. Then one man from the back yelled _reek_, and the rest followed.

_How did they know?_

Reek did not know if the chants were in his mind or in fact. _No_, he corrected himself, _my name is not Reek._ Maybe Theon forgot the blade in his chambers or lost it in the feast, but that did not matter now. All that mattered was the boy in his hands, the one he could control.

"My name is not Reek," Theon mumbled as his hands closed around the boy's throat. As he struggled for breath, he heard the sound of laughter dying. When Theon finally let go, the boy fell to the floor, colder than ice. _My name is not Reek._ Theon stepped over him and made his way to his chambers. None stood in his path.

His room was quieter, but it felt like the walls were closing. Theon tried to shut his eyes but tears escaped them. All he saw was the boy. His face then changed to the farm kids, whom Theon had burned before hanging them on the walls of Winterfell. Rickon… dead in the dirt, slain by Ramsay's arrow. He wondered how Bran had fallen.

**8\. Pyke**

Daenerys showed him the scrolls of Lady Olenna and Ellaria Sand, hinting toward what Tyrion Lannister already knew. "Dorne and Highgarden are ready to march," she told him, while her eyes seemed to say, _give me one reason why we should not_.

"I know it has been a while since we sent Winterfell terms of alliance, but Jon Snow has not given us an answer yet," Tyrion said, remaining coy. "Maybe his raven lost its way in the winds."

"Maybe," said Daenerys. "But at what point do we assume Winterfell plots against us? I understand the North can be great allies, but will they be allies with Targaryens, Lannisters and Greyjoys?"

The tides were crashing against iron islands, audible to all, but Tyrion felt he was in more dangerous waters. _I have wine in my belly, but I must keep my wits. We must not court war._ He tried a different track. "I had hoped it would not come to this," he said, "but perhaps it must. Very well – I shall travel to Winterfell on your behalf and offer your terms to Jon Snow and Sansa Stark. I shall not leave without an answer. I believe they know me well enough not to slaughter me on my family name alone…"

"I agree," interrupted Daenerys. "I think it is the best plan. In such delicate state of affairs, war must be my last option to explore."

Tyrion hid his surprise well, but Daenerys may have guessed it all the same. "You know," she said, "from what Jorah and Ser Barristan told me about Robert's Rebellion, it sounds like your father was very similar to you. He was an expert politician who ruled as Hand to the Seven Kingdoms… but under a king jealous and mad. Things did not work out well for either of them. One was killed by his own Kingsguard, another by his son." She paused. "Such history must remain locked to the past."

"Your Grace," Tyrion started. "You are not your father-"

"I believe so," she interrupted again. "We are not all of our families. Yara shares Balon Greyjoy's courage, but she is not him. You… you have your father's mind, but you have a better heart. That is what will win us this alliance, and what will build a better Westeros."

Tyrion Lannister retired to his chambers with desire he did not have before. It was not lust, he knew, for that had died with Shae. It was a longing for a world where monarchs could be strong but just, people heartful and hopeful, which made the coming winds of winter almost bearable.

If there were not wine enough in his belly, Tyrion may have heard the footsteps behind him earlier. When he finally turned, it was too late. He heard the dagger enter his belly before searing pain reached his limbs, reached his mind. Paralyzed, he staggered to the floor yelling, looking up at his assailant. All he remembered, before she slashed the dagger against his throat, were piercing eyes of grey.


	4. Season 7 Episode 4

**1\. Pyke**

The scream was colder than death, and oddly familiar.

Yara Greyjoy raced past chambers to reach the sound. Feet on stone echoed behind her – the Dothraki, the Unsullied – trying to reach the source of the yell, but Yara knew she would make it first. As she came closer to the queen's chambers, dread began to cloak her. No, a voice inside her said. _The sound was of a man. It cannot be._

Fortunately, Yara met Daenerys Targaryen on the way. From what little Yara saw while rushing past, dagger in hand, she seemed confused, shaken, yet very much alive. Grey Worm was close to her. Yara heard screeches of dragons outside, as if the beasts somehow knew their mother feared for her life. She rushed past Dany, heading for the door from where the sound stemmed. Unhesitatingly, she kicked it open.

Tyrion Lannister slept face down in a pool of his own blood. A glass shattered lay beside him, wine slowly mixing with the gore. Yara moved toward Tyrion's still visage, hoping he would grunt, cough or spring to his feet revealing this to be a cruel jape. Tyrion did none. The stench of death in the chambers was rank.

As Yara stood in shock, she heard queen's men enter the chamber. The silence in the room was more absolute than death itself. None dared approach the body, to turn suspicions into answers. Yara sprung into action. _Even if there is a drop of life in him, he may reveal to us his accoster._ When Yara tried to flip Tyrion around, the dwarf's torso turned, but his head remained stuck in blood.

Gasps of shocks followed. Behind Yara, she heard another set of footsteps enter the room, knowing it to be the Dragon Queen's. _This is not my place to grieve._ Yara had no love for Tyrion… and knew his killer may still be in the castle.

She ran behind bloody footprints leading to another chamber, in pursuit. Then another, and then another.

After a while, the killer seemed to have either wiped their footprints or abandoned their shoes, for the tracks disappeared. Yara did not feel discouraged, she knew these chambers better than anyone. As she raced past people and pockets of rooms, she felt she was edging closer. The dagger in her hands tightened.

As she turned right, a long narrow corridor lay in front of her, with Lord Varys in the middle of it. Charging toward Varys was… _could this really be the killer?_ Yara could only see the back of her, from which she seemed not more nor less a youth wearing the cloth of a serving girl. Varys saw her face. His eyes widened in shock.

_He knows her._

Behind Varys approached a few ironborn, trapping the girl between them and Yara. She knew what the serving girl was considering, and also knew she had little chance of stopping it. She contemplated throwing her dagger at the girl before she took her chance to jump out of the window besides… but knew if she missed, Varys could be next to die. In any way, the window opened to the Ironman's Bay, and the Salt God was in a fury tonight.

She saw the girl leap to her death. When she looked down from the window, all the cloudy sky let her see were dark rocks and a sea so frightful, even a dragon would not be able to scorch through its waters. She heard the ironborn behind Varys leave to rush to the shore to make certain, leaving Yara alone with the eunuch.

It was she who broke the silence. "Did you know her?"

Varys sounded like a man waiting for someone to ask. "Someone I knew a long time ago," he said quickly, "she was supposed to be a world away. A… A Stark pup who forsook the family name. What did she do?"

The mention of Stark brought home to Yara the reality of their situation. She stared over the black sea, letting its merry sounds in her ears before they would be replaced with the ring of swords and shields.

"Start a war."

**2\. Pyke**

The brooch was still on his chest, red where it should have been gold. Daenerys Targaryen looked at it with tears in her eyes, but they were not of sorrow. Her men stood behind her, wary of what came after. For a while they stood in the stillness, save sounds of salt waves and the screech of dragons. Daenerys sought tranquil to make choices calm and true. But when Varys came to the chambers to give her the name, her mind became oddly clear.

"Missandei!"

The word came as a whip, startling everyone, although the Naathi scribe was right beside her. The queen's commands were brief. "Send ravens to our friends in the south. Tell them to send every man they can spare to the Iron Islands. Winterfell wants war. I shall give them worse."

"Your Grace," began Varys, but Daenerys cut the Spider off. "Do it right away. The time for talk has passed," she added pointedly. As Missandei scurried away to the rookery, silently weeping, Daenerys ordered some men to call a maester, the others to vacate. Even the Dothraki scampered in her sights.

"My queen," Varys attempted again, but the eyes of Daenerys were full of fire as she turned, next, onto the Master of Whisperers. "Maybe my father was mad for a reason, Varys. Maybe ruling Seven Kingdoms takes more force and fear than the commonfolk would like. Maybe if I was not advised to give the Starks license, they would not conspire to murder-"

"They did not," Varys added hurriedly. "It is true that the killer was Stark by blood, but she acted of her own volition. My little birds sing songs of a girl from Braavos, serving the God of Many Faces-"

"Arya Stark may serve the Drowned God for all that it matters," retorted Daenerys, angry at the interruption. "It does not change her blood, nor her deed. The Starks must pay. What kind of queen must I hope to be if such treason is left unpunished?"

Her claims were met with silence from Varys. The eunuch turned his back to the queen, in the direction of the fallen dwarf instead. "There is blood, to be sure," he said finally, with a sadness Daenerys did not expect. "Tyrion Lannister was a just man, a good man. After what his own kin did to him, greater men would have been driven to despair and death. If it were not for my appeals, he would not have come to Meereen for the queen across the water. I will not blame myself for this," he added, although Daenerys suspected otherwise. "His death is tragic… and it is also an outrage that cannot not be tolerated. But I do not believe one act of injustice can be avenged with another. Someone must be punished, but must it not be those who deserve it?"

Varys had the truth of it. If Arya Stark was not sent by Winterfell, she would be marching her armies on the wrong people. Dany could not wage war on a house for crimes they did not commit, but the death of Tyrion Lannister could not go unpunished either. There was a balance she had to find.

"I shall send a raven to Winterfell telling them what has happened," she said finally, struggling for tones calmer. "I shall command this bastard king to bend his knee. But I will not make the mistake of waiting at Pyke for his answer. We must sail for Barrowton."

**3\. The Wall**

The stew at Castle Black was sour and crusty, but Bran gobbled it like wolf devouring sheep. Food helped lessen the visions, and with a full belly, Bran saw the common hall clearly. Meera Reed sat beside him, gulping the stew with equal exuberance. Around the hall, hunched sullenly over their bowls were few dozen men in black. _The wildlings have not reached Castle Black yet_, Bran knew, although he did not know how. In front of them was Eddison Tollett, Acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, staring at them with eyes big and black.

No amount of reiteration could convince Dolorous Edd that the broken boy in front of him was heir to Winterfell. At the very least, Bran was grateful the watchers let them pass the gate. The fact that the Night's Watch allowed wildlings to cross the Wall was for their favour, and though Bran was content with the men in black treating them as such, Meera did not stop insisting Castle Black send ravens to Winterfell about the return of their lord. They finally did, more out of precaution than anything, with a shoddy sketch of his face.

"I think I understood something about your visions that may help, Bran," said Meera cautiously, when the common hall finally left them alone. Bran felt a sense of dread, knowing he was in fear of what was to come next, even though not knowing what. "You were able to see clearer with the Three-Eyed Raven… but that may not only be because of instruction. Could it be the weirwood trees?"

The dread that lurked in Bran now felt fresher; he suddenly wished Meera had not said that. True, his visions were never entirely clear, and when he touched a weirwood, they became stronger. He had considered that and knew it to be plausible, but every time he thought of that a picture of the Three-Eyed Raven came to his mind – old, tired, trapped in a cave, waiting for death.

Days after meeting the Three-Eyed Raven, Bran had to concede to himself that even he could not heal his legs. Knighthood was not for him… but Bran hoped he could be of some help in the battle to come, perhaps slipping into the skins of a soldier to help in the war against the dead. Were they all for naught? _Is my destiny to simply find a tree and curl inside of it?_

**4\. The Northlands**

"Look into the flames, Clegane."

The walls of the abandoned cottage felt less like home, more a prison. Perhaps it was the company Sandor kept while hiding from a storm that looked likely to stay till spring. He had stopped asking himself the point in accompanying Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr to the Wall. _Or was it beyond?_ Clegane did not even know where at this point – all he knew was that it was somewhere north. His life was lost. If anyone gave him a task, he shut up and did it.

Somehow he thought telling Dondarrion would help, but the moment he had, he instantly regretted it. Dondarrion pounced on the chance like a dog on bones, giving him sermons on the Lord of Light and how Thoros changed his life (changed his deaths, rather), destiny, purpose and the rest of it. When Thoros joined in, Sandor ultimately relented. "Logs are burning," he began his examination dismissively, but Dondarrion and Thoros urged him to persist. So he did. Besides, the two were shit for company.

It took him sooner than expected, but when he saw it, he knew they had to part ways. He did not know why, but he felt it not right to tell them where he was going. Thoros seemed more understanding than Dondarrion. "When the storm ends, go where the flames take you," he said simply, "but no further."

**5\. King's Landing**

Randyll Tarly did not have a hair on his head. Jaime Lannister felt Tarly may resent him for it, but that was before he realized he had no sword hand himself. _I suppose that makes us even._

While Cersei held court, Jaime did what he was instructed. They needed allies, Jaime knew – apart from the two of them, the lack of royalty in the Red Keep was troubling. The death of Queen Margaery had brought the smallfolk up in arms. Tarly, known across the realm for his steadfastness as much as skill, was one way to win back their faith.

It would be hard to bring Tarly to their side, though. Lord Randyll had agreed to meet with the Lannisters out of respect for the Iron Throne, but Jaime knew he wanted war with them as much as the Queen of Thorns. But Tarly was Westerosi, born and bred, so Jaime attempted to reason with him in his language. He told him about the Unsullied and the Dothraki, about the reserves of gold held by the Tyrells, once earned by the miners of Highgarden and now destined to fall into the hands of savages and eunuchs. The bald man did not show it, but Jaime knew the lure of money would nab his attention. _Even men of honor do not refuse a sack of gold for their troubles._

He entered Cersei's chambers with hope. He found Cersei ready to cry with joy. Jaime could not remember the last time he saw giggles escape her. She stopped when she saw him. _Always my sweet sister, trying to show herself tough._ "Euron has interesting news," she said. "The ironborn on Pyke have revealed to him a most favorable development. Daenerys Targaryen courts war with Jon Snow. The time to strike is now."

Jaime was shocked. "Winterfell at war with the Targaryens? What made this happen?"

"Any alliance between Stark and Targaryen would never be easy," said Cersei. The girlish smile was now back. "Lesser so when Daenerys Targaryen's Hand is murdered."

Daenerys' Hand… _Tyrion?_

The silence from Jaime was all that was needed for Cersei's grin to revert to stone. "Listen to me," she said. "The minds of our two greatest threats are distracted. The time to strike is now. Gather every man you can spare and prepare to march. This is our chance to win more of Westeros-"

"Fuck Westeros," Jaime heard himself say. "_Our brother is dead,_ the same brother we grew up with in Casterly Rock. I know you had no love for him, but surely you can spare a moment instead of pretending you are as stern a ruler as Father."

Cersei's countenance refused to budge. "The time," she repeated for the third time, "to strike is now. You need to leave. This is an order." Cersei always began conversations with lack of emotion, but Jaime had not expected her to prolong that until now. This was something new. Jaime felt himself hesitate. "Is this about what happened the other night?"

Cersei maintained the silence, making Jaime silent. In the quiet, Jaime wondered how long Cersei delayed before telling him of the death of Tyrion. He wondered what more Cersei was keeping from her twin.

"Prepare to march," she said.

**6\. Winterfell**

Rage would carry Jon Snow through. Through the raven sent by the Mother of Dragons, he had learned, with relief, that his sister was alive all this time, only to learn further that she was swallowed by the blackness of the sea.

He cared not for slain dwarves or family names fallen. Arya was the closest to a sister the bastard boy had, before he gave her up for brothers in black. He had done his duty as well as he could, but somewhere, could not do the duty of deserting ties of family. Despite what he heard of the wars while on the edge of the world, Jon hoped they were all lies, that one day he would enter an inn at Mole's Town to find Arya, Robb and Bran together with Lord Eddard Stark, all waiting for him, beams on their faces. But that was a green boy's dream, a dream for spring that would never be found in icy cold winter.

Chaos echoed across stone walls of Winterfell as the lords discussed war. Jon was glad the northmen shared his fury. He had declared war rather than bend the knee to the people who killed his sister, and he felt glad he did. Suddenly, Daenerys Targaryen was less a possible ally and much more a threat to the north. "She thinks I will swear her fealty. She wants me to meet her at Barrowton," Jon told the bannermen. "And I will, but only with the might of the north!"

Roared Wyman Manderly over the cheers, "The Targaryens are a southron house. I shall like to see how they fare on our lands!"

Amidst shouts of victory and war, Jon saw Littlefinger participate in none. Jon's rage gave way to doubt. _What is this man thinking of now?_ When the hall finally fell silent and Baelish spoke, Jon was surprised to hear his usually eloquent speech falter.

"I am no northman," he said, "even though I have pledged my house to the Starks. But if we are to be defeated, if our king is to die or be captured on the snowy shores of Barrowton, what must become of the north when Queen Daenerys marches to Winterfell? Will these walls keep Lady Sansa safe," he said, voice cracking, "or will the Mother of Dragons show her no mercy as well?"

_There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_, Jon wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat. Theon Greyjoy passed these walls with twenty men and nearly ended the Stark bloodline. If Daenerys Targaryen truly had a three-headed dragon, as rumor had it, no castle in the north would hold it. If Jon was to lose, the north needed Sansa to keep the Stark line alive, to fight the army of the dead when the time came.

_He is a slippery man,_ Jon thought, looking at Littlefinger, _but I cannot believe he wishes harm on my sister. Besides, I would rather fight Daenerys Targaryen with loyal northmen than slippery ones like him._ As king, Jon had to make the hard decision no one could. But before he said it, Sansa Stark did.

"You speak truth, Lord Baelish. Daenerys Targaryen has a massive army," she said. Jon liked that she did not mention the three-headed dragon to not coin facts to rumors. "You have proved yourself loyal in the Battle of the Bastards. Will you prove your loyalty again, when the north demands it, by giving me shelter in the impregnable castle of the Vale?"

**7\. Pyke**

Everywhere around Theon Greyjoy, men prepared for war. Ships began loading with fish and barley. Captains commanded to soldiers battle plans and strategies. The Unsullied marched across salt shores with unsettling precision. Ships from Dorne and Highgarden began to arrive, docking on the iron islands. The dragons above yelled with impatience.

His sister was to stay in Pyke and rule, and Theon would be better serving Daenerys in war than with the ironborn, whose disgust for him had only increased after he had throttled the poor boy. Theon knew the queen needed him – he was the only one on the island who lived his life in the northlands and had, however briefly, even conquered Winterfell.

'_Prince of Winterfell'… that seems so long ago._ The wounds of the War of Five Kings were many – the death of Luwin, of Ser Rodrik, of Bran and Rickon. They may never be healed, but when they felt to be finally forgotten, more war loomed, and more loss.

_I want to be over with war, but what else am I to do?_

A few ironborn had pledged their swords to the queen. Theon did not want to, even if he knew he must. _This entire war was built on lies._ Yara saw Arya Stark leap into the Ironman's Bay and inferred her death, even though they never found her body. Jon Snow may have bent the knee if he was not told about Arya's death. Arya may not have died at all. She was tough, she may have swum across the waves of the bay, seized a stray vessel. She must. _Please, not her too._

Theon went into the sea to escape the glares of the ironborn. Alone, cold waves engulfed him and the smell of salt brought with it memories. Theon remembered very little of his memories at Pyke, but he recalled the time he came here to convince his father to pledge for Robb Stark. It was a place he hardly recognized, with people who did not recognize him either.

The smell of the sea began to change. Theon saw shades of crimson among blue and black. He began to pat his body in panic, but realized the blood was not his. Robed in red and grey, he saw the body float down to him in eerie stillness. Reek felt his heart tumble, scared of what he was to see, hoping he would be mistaken.

Her face was older than when Theon last saw her, but there was no mistaking the long face, the skinny hands, the brown of her hair nor the color of her eyes – grey, lifeless and lost.


	5. Season 7 Episode 5

**1\. Pyke**

Preparations had been made and ships were to sail on the morrow, but Daenerys Targaryen had lost her will for war. Privacy was a gift when all she wished was to lose herself in her mind, lamenting the loss of Daario, of Ser Barristan, Drogo, her child, Jorah, whom there was no word from, and now Tyrion Lannister. She had ordered him kept in a jeweled casket, unsure if his body would ever be brought to Casterly Rock.

She had forgotten her brother Viserys. _He was a cruel man_, she thought immediately, but felt regret after. Viserys was vain and weak-willed, yet they were siblings bound by blood. _When he had melted in front of me, I felt nothing_, a cruel voice reminded her. She remembered that feeling when she left Daario in Dragon's Bay as well. Varys the Spider's hints came haunting. _Maybe he had the right of it._

Maybe it was because of her moon blood, but Daenerys thought the voyage into her past more a trapping, less a liberation. She called Missandei for company, one person she knew would not be preparing for war. The Naathi scribe entered her chambers with caution on her face, and Daenerys instantly felt for her pity. Missandei had been affected by Tyrion's death, but also by Dany's harsh manner when she commanded her to send the ravens. She could not help it. _The dragon had awakened._

Daenerys tried to keep such thoughts away from her. It would not do to be short of temper. She began the conversation gently, a means of apology. "Missandei, I am curious to know what you are thinking."

"I promise to offer my queen full and free counsel," came Missandei's dutiful words.

The pangs of guilt felt stronger, but she decided against the urge to apologize. _A queen must not be too soft of heart._ Instead, she asked what she wanted to. "My Hand has been killed by a Stark, but the people I command to surrender may not be at fault. There must be consequences for Tyrion's murder, but are they just? I cannot expect to lead Westeros if I do not fight my supposed enemies. What would you have me do?"

Missandei's eyes were shining; Dany suspected she was holding back tears at the mention of the deceased Tyrion. When she spoke, her voice was solid and steady. "I have the honor of serving the Breaker of Chains," she said. "I have been rescued from a life of slavery and sorrow. I have seen you abolish servitude from Slaver's Bay when I did not think it possible in a hundred lifetimes. My queen must know best. Whatever she commands, I will follow."

As Missandei left closing the red door behind her, Daenerys was reminded of one of the houses she sheltered in, hiding from Robert Baratheon's men. Memories with Viserys resurfaced, as she recalled fleeing from city to city with him, escaping the Usurper's assassins by half a day. She sighed. _They were times simpler._

**2\. Winterfell**

Fifteen thousand men were ready to march to Barrowton. Commoners stood outside the gates, waiting to cheer brave men when they passed.

Winterfell had taken the loss of Arya Stark as its own daughter's. Chatter in snowy streets was somber, and then rageful. After Jon had declared war, Wyman Manderly and Cley Cerwyn met the pair in person, on their behalf swearing vengeance. With Sansa readying to depart to the Vale, Jon had named Lyanna Mormont Wardeness of the North, and the young girl could not have looked more honored.

Men enlisted themselves for the battle with smiles on their faces. Sansa could tell Jon thought it wrong to recruit them, nevertheless he did so. He gave them his thanks in a manner befitting his title, yet swollen eyes betrayed what he felt.

Sansa, on the other hand, felt calmness envelope her being, even if immediately outside of it was chaos. War was always to be upon them… and better now, before the Walkers were upon the Wall, and better here, on soil the northmen knew. No alliance between Starks, Lannisters, Greyjoys and Targaryens was one that was going to last. There was too much blood spilled for such truces.

_Tyrion Lannister was not a bad man_, a voice in her argued. Sansa shoved it away, remembering Joffrey and Cersei Lannister. _The Lannisters do not seem like bad men until it's too late. That's what makes them so clever._ She felt grateful that she was, at the very least, wise enough to keep to herself at King's Landing, when wedded to the dwarf. The less Daenerys Targaryen knew about them, the better.

It was understandable for commonfolk to believe Arya's death but harder, she supposed, for Winterfell's bannermen. Brienne's squire Podrick Payne had recently confided in Sansa about the northern lords and their distrust of the raven bearing the news, but the lords had not brought their doubts to their king. As far as it looked, they were eager for an excuse to drive away a Targaryen conqueror from their lands, and Arya's supposed demise gave them enough reason.

Arya could not have died in Pyke… not when she had disappeared years before, the time their father was killed. Westeros was too cruel for women left alone. Sansa did not want to put her speculations on what really happened to Arya to voice, let alone in front of Jon. She did not think Jon would believe her, but if he did, he may also decide against war. Sansa did not want that. _Anyone who lies about my sister's death is not to be trusted._

She entered Jon's chambers before they were to part. His back was to her, but Ghost saw her enter. The direwolf bounded towards her, to which Jon turned. His eyes were solemn.

"Littlefinger says he is ready to leave," he told her, as Sansa scratched Ghost's ears. "Promise me you'll be careful around that man."

"I will," Sansa said. The pair had not discussed Sansa's decision to seek shelter in the Vale since she had made it. Part of Sansa suspected Jon was considering the same decision, but the words had stuck in his throat. "Brienne is coming with me," she reminded him, "not to mention a thousand northmen. I feel safe, even if you may not."

"They do not seem enough," Jon said simply. Sansa saw him weigh up options in his mind, wondering what he was thinking about. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," he said. "I have my lords, and I have Ser Davos. I want you to take Ghost."

"_Jon!"_

"I know I am walking towards danger, but I don't know if you are," he said firmly. "This man sold you to Roose, even though he says it was in good faith. But… I also know Father believed we find true friends on the battlefield, and he did help us against the Bastard of Bolton for you." He paused, contemplating his words. "I do not know what kind of man Lord Petyr Baelish is, but direwolves have a better sense of danger than men do."

Sansa tried to change his mind, but Jon would remain adamant. His stubbornness was beginning to vex her. "Why cannot Ghost stay at Winterfell?" she lashed out finally. "The people need something to unite behind, be it a direwolf. How can you think Lyanna is enough to unify the kingdom?"

Jon paused. He turned his back. At first Sansa thought it was in anger, but he was actually looking for something. When he finally found it, a bit of parchment, he moved towards Sansa, gesturing her to keep their voices low. "Lyanna stood for House Stark when it needed her the most," he said softly. "I know she is not enough, but the people will rally behind her… long enough for there to be a Stark in Winterfell again."

"But it is not certain for us to return before-"

"Not us, Sansa," he said, eyes now glistening. "I was sent a raven from Dolorous Edd, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. No one else is to know." He handed Sansa the parchment in silence.

The parchment was moist, yellowed and frayed, with words hard to read. Below was also a shabby sketch of the face of a boy. Sansa's eyes widened as she recognized it. _Remember Arya_, a voice inside told her. "How can we know for sure that's… him?" she whispered.

Mutely, Jon pointed to a line at the bottom.

"_I did not look away. Father would have known if I had."_

**3\. The Sunset Sea**

The waters were tranquil, but a storm was simmering underneath. Theon Greyjoy felt it in his bones as a bleak sun guided him forward, but instead of fright, he felt calm. The floor of the tiny boat rocked underneath his legs, threatening to give way, but Theon trusted her not to. He was always better with small vessels than with large ships.

The boat went forward silently, Theon with it. Water sloshed behind them in peace. What little tide there was helped push him further and further away from Pyke, for which he was grateful. His arms ached with every swing of the oar but he did not stop, knowing he could not risk getting caught by any of Daenerys' fleet, yet uncertain if the path forward was the right one.

Despite the urgency, Theon allowed himself to enjoy the sea. There was a chill, the winds were starting to pick up the pace, but he valued the cold in a way he hadn't before, grateful to feel it against his skin, brush through his hair. Alone, aside from politics and plotting, the world managed to be a thing of beauty.

Theon did not belong at Pyke. He was not a Greyjoy, but he was no Stark either, nor was he Reek. He was Theon; a man tired of war and bloodshed, weary of loss, weary of tragedy.

He wondered if his choice to row to Barrowton, to the path of northmen and Jon Snow was the right one. Sometimes, the thought of facing them again made him shake with fear, but Theon had to overcome them. Part of him wished to be over with war, to feel in the stony walls of Winterfell welcome again, perhaps immerse himself in its libraries. If not Jon, at least Sansa would understand.

Even if they would not, and Theon were sentenced to the sword, he would understand why, although an escape from this world felt like reward for his crimes. Regret was one emotion he could scarce shake away. He looked away from the sea and into the boat, the cold, grey eyes of his deceased passenger. Maybe bringing her body to them would help make amends.

**4\. Meereen**

The rag was tied across Ser Jorah Mormont's head to hide his skin. He was sweaty enough without the cramped room being full of colored smoke, making his eyes smart. Lazy red and green lights filled the place, yet without actually brightening it. In the middle of the cramped space sat the old crone, black and silver hair shadowing her face. A bonfire, the source of the light, danced in front of them.

_Fool._ Jorah scolded himself for letting his desperations get the better of him. He had seen dragons, stone men and bloodmagic, but this was one too far. _This…_ maegi, _or whatever she calls herself, can be of no help to me._ Her fame was another mendacious rumor spread by the locals of this city, a false artifact created to keep up pretenses of their former glory.

The silence of the room, occasionally broken by crackling of the flames, was starting to make him uneasy. Alone, Jorah felt he may somehow perish here, in sorrow and solitude. By instinct, his hand thought to grip his dagger, but before it moved, a voice croaked from the thick, ropey hair: "If I wanted to kill you, no blade would stop me."

Despite what sounded like a threat, the odd tone of reassurance in her thick accents made Jorah halt, her slightest bit of conversation vanquishing at once his fear of death. Jorah, knowing death was at his doorstep regardless, felt desperation flow through his veins again. In that moment, he decided to renew his trust in the _maegi_ with all hair and no face. "I am here," he began, but the crone cut him off. "I have known enough people with greyscale to recognize its scent."

_Of course._ As a sign of trust, Jorah unwound slowly the cloth from his face. Every time he used his arms, he was reminded how cumbersome they had become. The crone leaned closer to the flames and looked up at his face, parting aside her hair with fingers black and bony. Old, bottle green eyes shone at the knight's direction. With sufficient light on the crone's face, Jorah realized it was not the shadow that had made her skin look black, it was the flesh itself.

The crone pointed at his left arm mutely. "That is where I was touched, yes," Jorah confirmed, without asking how she knew.

Without preamble, the _maegi_ pointed at her arm and then the fire. Her eyes stared at Jorah in impatient expectancy, but Jorah was left unclear. _Does she wish me to feel its heat?_ Clearly she was a woman of few words, but she was forced to use them for the sake of clarification. "Your hand," she croaked violently. "In the fire."

"_In_ the fire?" The crone's silence confirmed Mormont's queries.

Jorah gazed into the green and crimson flames, wondering if he was victim to a cruel jape. The fire looked real enough, he could also feel its heat. He found himself trusting the lady who knew his intentions and illnesses before he put them to voice. _I hope the greyscale is not affecting my sanity._ After only a second's hesitation, Jorah plunged his arms in the fire.

The pain came a second after, searing through his arm, piercing his heart. Jorah jerked his arm away from the fire in the same pace he had thrust it. His arm was not afire, but the pain was there. He tried not to yell, and instead grunts escaped his teeth. With the agonizing burn came the slight modicum of comfort that, at the very least, his arm was capable of feeling.

"Only dragonfire," came the crone's croaked reply, her green eyes now inspecting a bowl. While Jorah's arm was among dancing lights, it seemed she had gathered the yellowing blood that escaped his cracked skin. Jorah processed her words, pain momentarily forgotten. "Did you say dragonfire?"

The crone's reply was impatient. "There is magic in dragonfire," she said, eyes not leaving her vessel. "When I heard of dragons in Meereen, I left the wyverns of Sothoryos for here. I managed to get some of their flames, and they have been aiding others ever since. Others, that is," she said, with an uncharacteristic cackle, in tones that would frighten bears, "except for yourself."

**5\. King's Landing**

As the lists of casualties on both sides increased, Cersei Lannister had to admit to herself the failure of her plan. Crushing Septa Unella's head in front of the capital frightened the heretics enough to stop wearing grey garbs in public and carrying out sermons on the ashes of Baelor, but they were now striking from the shadows, recruiting armies and attacking gold cloaks when they least expected it. Pulling out the reeds was not working. Ser Gregor was a frightful man, but evidently not as frightful as dragons.

"This mummer's farce needs to end," Cersei told Qyburn as the Iron Throne finished holding court for another day. "I have had hundreds in patched motley slayed, yet they continue to breed like flies. Where is Bronn?"

"Presumably in the streets, slaying the flies," said Qyburn, "but I'm afraid he will not succeed. Your Grace, I fear the situation is a bit more nuanced."

Cersei was dismissive. "We must find the snake's head and cut it off."

"I must differ," said Qyburn. "I do not believe the Righteous Saviors of the Seven are a group among the people; indeed, they are the people. With respect, Your Grace, consider the minds of the populace when they learn someone destroyed their place of worship and killed their beloved Queen Margaery, before ascending to the throne themselves. Since the days of Aegon the Conqueror, every monarch of the Seven Kingdoms has been anointed with the blessings of the High Septon. Any ruler who is not is, in the eyes of the people, not fit to carry out the will of the gods."

_The will of the gods._ Cersei could not resist herself a chuckle. "I had forgotten how foolish the smallfolk are."

"Foolish they may be," Qyburn replied with a sympathetic smile, "but such is the predicament we find ourselves in. King's Landing is beginning to lose its faith in the royal blood. My spies tell me stories of desperate people who believe in the myth of _Azor Ahai_. In Flea Bottom, old men claim an army of dead men march on the Wall as punishment for the queen's crimes. Others believe the dragons of Daenerys Targaryen are real gods, and drink secret toasts to their health."

Cersei's initial inclination was to let Qyburn know what she thought of his opinions on her reign, but she saw the sense in his argument. _I must learn from what happened with the Faith Militant._ The costs of war meant relative lowborns like Harys Swyft and Gilbert Farring were castellans of historic seats in Casterly Rock and Storm's End, people unlikely to inspire loyalty. The lack of royalty at the Red Keep, apart from disillusioning the people with the monarchy, also made it more difficult to govern kingdoms she yet controlled.

Fleetingly, Cersei wondered why she sent away Jaime Lannister at such delicate times. _No_, a stronger voice in her said. _No one humiliates Lord Tywin's daughter with impunity._

**6\. The Northlands**

Within hours of Jon Snow's farewell from Winterfell Sansa Stark had left, albeit in different directions. If the maesters had not determined it to be day, she would never have known it – clouds had gathered angrily above darkening the sky, threatening to explode and snowbound them all. It was imperative, Sansa told her men, they make haste for the Vale before the skies punished them.

Be it her decision, Sansa felt doubtful of leaving the North in the hands of Lyanna Mormont. However, before leaving, the chat she had with the Wardeness filled her with confidence. _She may be young, with the weight of Winterfell around her shoulders, but fidelity is certainly one of her strong suits._

The plan Jon had thought was, she had to admit, solid. If he were to die at the hands of Daenerys and Sansa were to fall into trouble, Lyanna was instructed to sue for peace with the Targaryens. If peace were achieved, their brother Bran could unify the north, but if not, he would remain in hiding with the northmen, either at Bear Island or Castle Black. The Wall were sworn to take no part in politics, but they owed Jon Snow too much to refuse.

Jon had insisted everyone march in an infantry square with Sansa and Petyr Baelish in the center, protecting them from thieves or stone crows. It seemed like a good idea, but Sansa could not help feel a bit sorry for the men on the outermost square, forced to face the winds at full tilt. As it stood it was her, Littlefinger, Lady Brienne and Podrick most immune from the winds, while Ghost occasionally broke the square to hunt for game.

With lack of ships and rocky seas, their best course was to travel by land. That would mean brushing past the Riverlands, Sansa knew, and it was not a prospect she welcomed. Riverrun was in chaos now, with the Freys fighting bloody battles at the Neck. From recent reports Emmon, Perriane and Rhaegar Frey had left the Twins manned with little to no people, the bulk of their forces having marched to Seagard. A foolish plan, but since when were the Freys known for strategy?

They had decided to take a detour to the Twins before continuing on their way. It would do them well to inform the Freys of them marching to the Vale. If it came to war they had the men to push through, and if they were short Littlefinger could always send a raven to his friends in the Vale. Even so, Littlefinger claimed he had enough friends in the Twins to secure them safe passage. Sansa was, as always, skeptical.

"Robb had to swear marriage with a Frey when he wanted to make an agreement with them," she told him. "I hope for your sake you do not plan on wedding me to another madman, Littlefinger. There are many more northmen than knights of the Vale around us, so I doubt that suggestion will get you very far." The tone was jovial, but Sansa saw to it Littlefinger was aware she meant every word.

Littlefinger's countenance was of mild annoyance, although it disappeared quickly. "It disappoints me that I have yet not claimed your trust," he said. "I have rescued you from King Joffrey, given you an army when Winterfell needed it, and am now offering shelter in the most impregnable stronghold in Westeros. One day, maybe, you will see all that I have done for you, and that may be the day you address me by my real name."

Petyr was expert at casing emotions with polished courtesy, but Sansa sensed the disappointment he had tried to cover. She felt a tinge of pity, but she rescued herself in time. _No. That is what he wants you to feel. It must all be part of his plan._

**7\. Pyke**

Ironborn were hardworking men, but often sacrificed sense for strain. When Daenerys tasked them with finding Theon Greyjoy they searched every corner of the castles, expecting to find his corpse in a secret passage only they knew existed. After hours of fruitless labor, Yara realized a small boat was missing along with some oars, sufficient evidence to suggest he had set sail. "He may have been taken," Yara told her, trying to maintain the neutrality of a lady, "or he may have fled."

Losing Theon was a blow. He knew Winterfell better than anyone on her side, not to mention had grown up with Jon Snow and Sansa Stark. _But is that why he fled?_ Daenerys put her concerns to voice. "Do you think Theon means to betray me for Winterfell?"

"No," came Yara's immediate reply. Then she paused. "I do not know what to make of my little brother. He may have been kidnapped, he may have sought Winterfell for asylum, he may have sailed beyond the Sunset Sea for all I know. But if he went of his own accord…" she hesitated. "…by law, he must pay the iron price."

"Treason will be punished," said Daenerys, "but I have learned that burning everyone who differs from me is no just way to rule. If Theon chose to flee, I promise you he will be brought before Pyke for a fair trial, and then justice."

Yara suggested accompanying her in Theon's stead, but Daenerys would have none of it. The ironborn were enraged at Theon's disappearing act and needed calm and leadership. If she were to fail at Barrowton, the Iron Islands needed to be a safe place to rest and recoup. "Besides, they are our people," Daenerys thought, looking around at the land of backward savages. "Look after them, would you?"

Varys found them, telling her the time had come to depart. "Jon Snow has left Winterfell," he told her while they boarded ship. She looked around at the number of ships ready to set sail. Some of them were from Dorne and some from Highgarden, but Ellaria Sand and Olenna Tyrell had not arrived yet. Olenna had sent them a raven, Varys said, informing her she would stay at Highgarden while sending her forces to Pyke, but Daenerys imagined Ellaria would accompany her army. It was a good day to set sail, she presumed. The seas looked calm, but Yara had told her it was the deceptive kind, with a storm awaiting underneath.

Varys was still talking. "He marches with an army from fifteen to twenty thousand strong for Barrowton. If we make haste, we can garrison the castle before him, giving us the advantage."

"No advantage can be gained with Dothraki behind walls," Daenerys told him. "Their very strength is on the field. I don't imagine northmen will do well against people who call killing a sport."

"War is your domain," Varys conceded. "My job is merely to provide information."

"It is, and you do it admiringly well. Why is it, Varys," she asked suddenly, although the question was in her mind for long, "that you risked your position at court, everything you had, only for me? What did the Targaryens do for you?"

Varys gave a sad chuckle. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I have no love for Targaryens. The day I heard about a Westerosi queen who broke chains of slaves and thought herself mother to her subjects, that was when you won my allegiance. I would have risked my life for you even if you were a Lannister. Why do you ask?"

"To know if you were what Tyrion claimed you to be," said Daenerys. Wordlessly, she fished out the brooch with golden fingers. She supposed Varys would have expected this, yet he played his part in showing surprise and reverence well.

**8\. Seagard**

Ever since Emmon Frey saw the castle in the distance, he trotted his horse forward without stopping. His army, on foot, begged for respite, but he would not hear it. He had already stabbed two men for attempting to rest as an example for others who dared to.

As Seagard approached closer to his force of one thousand men, Emmon could not resist counting his chickens. "Death or otherwise, this will be a glorious battle, Ser Hosteen," he murmured to himself, licking his lips. Hosteen was always the better knight between them, and Emmon had not forgiven him for that. But today, he thought, his army was bigger and Hosteen did not have the men to withstand a siege.

"We must conquer this castle quickly, my Lord," Perriane said on her horse beside him, breaking his thoughts. "The men are getting restless."

"They may be starving for all I care," Emmon sniped back, yet quietly enough for them to not hear. "As long as they can wield a sword, it's all the same to me." _Don't think I don't know what you are planning, sister._ He knew Perriane since they were fed by the same wet nurse; he would be disappointed if she were not plotting his untimely demise. Emmon had made some arrangements himself. _Two can play at this game, sweet sister._

As Seagard came closer, Emmon and his army's pace dwindled to an eventual halt. For normal reasons, this was so no stray arrow could pierce them through the eye, but today it was more out of shock. For Emmon and Perriane and all their men could see, hanging on the ramparts of Seagard, the rotten and lifeless corpse of Ser Hosteen Frey.

There was movement behind him. When Emmon turned, an arrow was pointed at his head from beside his horse. He wore Frey colors. _This is my own man._ He turned to look at Perriane, only to see another arrow slice through her eye, this one from the castle. Mutely, she fell to the snowy surface. Her horse fled.

Men now marched out of the castle, but not in battle formations. They were few, perhaps only a hundred, but Emmon's army did not move to attack them. They stood in uncertainty, not knowing what orders to follow. Some unsheathed swords but did no further.

The bearded man's arrow was still aimed at Emmon. "You don't even know who I am, do you?" the voice said, gruff and entirely unfamiliar. "You do not even know your own men."

"We have no quarrel with you," a voice from the hundred men said, as they approached them casually. "I see men here I remember. I see Patrek Mallister, a man forced to march to his own castle. Isn't that you, Lord Hoster Blackwood? I know _you_ would rather hold a book in your hand than shield. What are you doing, pledging your swords for the Frey who wants nothing but war?"

_This_ voice was instantly recognizable. Emmon looked in his direction, hoping he had misheard, but it was not to be. It was, unmistakably, Brynden the Blackfish walking from Seagard.

"Attack!" Emmon wanted to shout, but the arrow aimed at his head kept his mouth honest. The man with the bow spoke now, more to Emmon's army than to him. "Many of you may not recognize me now, but I still remember most of you. Father always told me to understand the people I must, one day, serve as lord to."

_Edmure Tully?_

"They imprisoned me," continued Edmure, "and they tortured me, but none of it took away my obedience, and neither should it yours. After the Red Wedding we kissed Walder Frey's feet, bony and stinking of piss, but never did we want to. Walder was a tyrant and his legacy will be madmen like Emmon Frey. Look where they have left us on the cusp of winter!

"Do you still want to play pawns to kings, lords and ladies in their never-ending game of thrones?" Edmure lowered his bow, taking away the fear of death from Emmon's eyes. "If I had my way we would all be at the Twins, preparing for winter, but I trust my people," he said, tossing his bow and arrow to the ground. "I leave these _Freys_, for they must be known by their denomination alone, to you," he said. "If you wish to crown him your lord, the choice is yours. None shall interfere."

There was stunned silence. Then one man – Hoster Blackwood, was it? – stepped forward. He went up to Edmure Tully, sword in hand, and buried it in the snow underneath him. "I was taught to follow no other lord but Tully," he said, "and today I will do my duty. If the Iron Throne recognizes House Frey as the Lord of Riverrun, fuck the Iron Throne! I will only stand for the man in front of me, Edmure Tully, the King of the Trident!"

The quiet was brief. Soldiers, eager to leave the Freys, eager for the march to end, all joined in – _King of the Trident!_ Emmon sat in dismay, hearing a chant he always wanted heard for him yelled for someone else. An infantryman grabbed him from his horse. That was, Emmon knew, to be expected, yet it did not stop him screeching for mercy. The mercy never came.


	6. Season 7 Episode 6

**1\. The Northlands**

When Davos Seaworth peeked outside his tent, barely upright, all he saw was torrents of rain.

The northern army had moved swiftly from Winterfell, but when they were mere hours away from Barrowton, clouds finally chose to implode. Hail and cold water hit snowy beds and shattered into shards. Some of it sliced through the tents Jon Snow had instructed to erect. They had laid camp against wee hills as protection against the raging wind, a trick that worked until the winds changed direction.

Hours turned to days as Barrowton inched closer and closer, yet never truly in sight. On days before the storm, they covered five-and-ten miles in a day. Now, with slippery surfaces and thundering hail, even covering a mile felt accomplishment enough. _What would have happened if we had marched a week later._

Davos was thankful his smuggling days gave him experience enough to withstand storms, although he had seen few like this one. He was reminded of the snows he faced with King Stannis Baratheon in their arduous journey south of the Wall. This time, when he looked around, at least the men in his company gave him greater comfort. _Northmen know how to embrace these storms._

The younger lads were with running noses and aches, desperate to sit behind walled castles, but not the others. The Cerwyns and Glovers made quick headway and Jon Snow, having spent half his life on the edge of the world, looked at complete ease with the weather. Davos supposed Wyman Manderly would have preferred staying in bed with hot onion soup but he was wrong. The fat man never looked more alive.

Morale was uncharacteristically celebratory in the war council. "If garrons are struggling in this weather, I wonder how many ships the Targaryen bitch has lost!" boomed Manderly's voice, to those of assent. "If the Greyjoys are good for something it's their skill on the sea," Davos replied, still cautiously sullen. "I expect them to know when to set sail and which waters to ride."

It appeared the northern lords did not share his pessimism. When the conversation soon turned to strategy, Lord Glover confidently suggested setting base in the mountains north of Barrowton rather than the castles. "If there's anything we know it's our lands," he said. "The Dothraki have never known snowy terrain. If the weather keeps up, Daenerys and her army will not be able to see five feet ahead of them. Why waste that advantage by holding ourselves up in towers?"

"So that we cannot be blind ourselves." Davos had to play reason. Northmen were good at heart and Davos got along with them better than Stannis Baratheon's men, but their chivalry could often be mistaken for foolhardy. "Meeting the Dothraki in open field will fuck us in the arse harder than poking Balerion the Dread in the eye."

Jon agreed. "Castle Goldgrass and Barrow Hall both overlook the sea, and it's likely their forces will anchor somewhere close," he said. "No siege against us will work in this weather. They will be forced to attack walls."

The council ended, but even after discussions and deliberations, Jon's mind seemed no clearer. He wrote his letter to Sansa in dazed apathy, mind elsewhere. Davos decided to give him a prod: he cleared his throat, signaling his presence in the camp and hinting at need for conversation, but over thundering rain, it was barely audible. Instead, he broke into speech. "Something the matter?"

Jon turned his eyes from the parchment to him. His countenance lightened slightly, although the words were weighted. "Daenerys Targaryen has thousands of Dothraki on her side. She is allies with Dorne and Highgarden. I still believe we can take them in battle, but what if this is all in vain?"

"Avenging your dead sister is never in vain."

"It is not, but what if Arya did not die at Pyke? I waged war because as king, it was what I had to do… but it was also what I wanted. But if this is all a ruse, the Night King will yet be marching from the Wall, and we'll be squabbling amongst ourselves, losing men who should instead be fighting the army of the dead."

Jon's words reflected his own considerations over past few nights. The conclusion he had reached was the one he told Jon. "If they lied about your sister's death, that lie would have made them uncertain allies. War is our decision. Sticking by it seems the wiser choice."

Jon nodded in the assertive. "Perhaps."

**2\. Meereen**

Jorah Mormont reached the Great Pyramid to find its throne empty, and Daario Naharis nowhere to be found. Sentries and courtiers otherwise stationed were absent, the room quite empty save Jorah himself.

Alone and wrapped in thick cloths covering him from head to ankle, he traversed the levels of the pyramid in search of his quarry, looking like a ghost chasing prey. Every other room was crowded and chaotic, Meereenese men and sellswords scurrying around without giving him second glances. By the time he found Daario, laughing with two naked women on his lap, Jorah had realized the cause of the confusion.

"War?" he yelled at him, without preamble, "you're sailing for war?"

"This is Ser Jorah Mormont," Daario told his mistresses in a tone of mischief, perhaps attempting to diffuse a brewing conflict, but Jorah would not take his hints. "Our queen commanded you to rule Meereen, not participate in conflicts-"

"Save me the lectures, Old Bear!" Daario's tone was harsh now, mischief forgotten. "I did not become a sellsword to rule over the ruins of a desert. Meereen, its people, they mean nothing to me. I will offer my services to our queen, but if she commands me to return to the land of confused slaves, the Second Sons have other friends to turn to. Euron Greyjoy has already sent me envoys from Dragonstone to join his forces. I wish to bathe in Westerosi blood before I die, and could have little regard for which."

On other occasions Jorah may have let the matter pass, but being as close to death as he was, he cared not for consequences. "You disgust me," he said in quiet gruffs. "Our queen saw something in you that none of us did. She believed you were capable of more than tearing apart families. She gave you a chance to break chains instead of bodies. Instead you betray her love, allying with Greyjoys and treating wars like sport like a summer child. If you think battle brings you glory, consider the man who stands in front of you, close to death after a life of misery!"

In a fit of rage, Jorah used his sword hand to rip the cloth covering his left arm, revealing the blackness underneath, now completely lost to the scale. Gasps filled the room. "I came here to inform you that my grayscale has been deemed incurable, that I shall be leaving Meereen by break of dusk, and to not worry about any outbreak of the plague in your city. But it seems clear that, regardless, you do not."

It was only after he left the room in anger did Mormont begin to comprehend the silence in the room after his speech. As he exited the Great Pyramid, he wondered if Naharis would send men after him. None came.

**3\. The Sunset Sea**

If it were not for the ironborn, surely the storm would have swallowed them all.

Daenerys felt relieved she heeded Yara Greyjoy's suggestion of keeping a few men of Pyke in every ship. She was worried that the vanity and ambition of the ironborn would transmit into foolish attempts at mutiny but so far, they had taken to the task well. There had been no shipwrecks and, according to Varys, only a couple of ships missing, suspected to be merely lagging behind in the fleet. In addition, even though the ironborn and Dothraki did not speak the same language, Daenerys could sense kinship forming between them, which in turn helped the khalasar stay calmer in rough waters.

At sea Varys could receive no ravens or messages from his spies, which left Daenerys uncertain about the progress of the northern army. She reasoned that the storms, had they occurred in the Barrowlands as well, ought to have slowed his march. If so, she had the upper hand; despite the weather, tides were actually moving in favor of their fleet, and the ironborn ensured swiftly moving ships.

"Goldgrass is a sturdy but small keep," Varys was telling her, "but it is Barrow Hall that will be difficult to capture, should the Starks reach before."

"I have three dragons."

"I must rephrase – difficult is a term relative when your dragons are concerned. Lives will be lost, but Barrowton will fall. Speaking of which, before we set sail I was told Lady Barbrey Dustin prepares banquets and refreshments for Jon Snow and the northmen at Barrow Hall. She once held ill will against the Starks of Winterfell in the past, a hate that has dissipated over the years."

"Why so?"

"Most of it dissolved after Ramsay Bolton's disastrous reign as Lord of Winterfell," said Varys, "but some appears to stem from loyalty to the bastard king. Stories get more and more magical the more north my birds fly, and for a boy who has lived half his life on the Wall, there's little wonder people consider him a God. The North are a superstitious people; it does not matter if anecdotes of Jon Snow rising from the dead or fighting White Walkers are fables, for they have united the country nonetheless."

Daenerys wanted to enquire further, but she saw Ellaria Sand emerge from the cabins underneath and decided to shelve the subject. "We'll speak of this later," she said to Varys curtly, as Ellaria approached her. She looked sullen. "I know Princess Nymeria once sailed across to Dorne with ten thousand ships, but that does not stop me from despising the sea."

"I thank you for coming," Daenerys said in response. Ellaria was scarce known for skilled diplomacy, but she meant well. "Dorne and Highgarden are necessary for reclaiming the Iron Throne, but for this battle, you could have just sent your men and rested at your kingdom, like Lady Olenna did."

Ellaria's smile was scornful. "I am not an old lady yet. If I die, I die on the battlefield, not like Olenna. The only sword she can wield lies in her tongue. Do you know what she said to me when I asked her why she was not coming with her people? 'I would love to dear, but the proposition sounds perfectly ghastly.'"

"In fairness," Daenerys told her, as they gazed at the raging abyss that was the Blazewater Bay, "her words were not completely false."

**4\. King's Landing**

Cersei Lannister patience's had worn thin. Days after she decided to heed Qyburn's advice and lessen the patrol of gold cloaks on the streets, flyers began to circulate among the people of King's Landing. When the City Watch held some of the commoners distributing them – sketches of Jaime fucking her from the back while Robert Baratheon took her from the front – they refused to disclose the names of originators of the crime, those probably connected to the Righteous Saviors.

The circulators were lined up in front of Cersei, chained like Bolton flayed men, while she sat on the Iron Throne with Qyburn standing beside. The people were present as well, as per Cersei's express commands. "Are you certain about this, Your Grace?" Qyburn was saying in a low voice. "If you choose to wait, by the next moon I could give you the names of the people responsible. That may be a better scheme."

"Schemes do not concern me anymore," she hissed. "My plans and traps in the past years formed a Faith Militant and killed my children. It was only when I burned the Sept of Baelor did I defeat my enemies. These people do not deserve diplomacy, they deserve fear. If they are not frightened enough into obedience, I must do my job better."

"So be it." Upon receiving the signal, Hallyne the Pyromancer set to work. While he dispensed justice, Cersei and Qyburn conversed in low tones.

"Have the Freys finished their bloody battle yet?" Cersei told Qyburn. "Stark or Targaryen, whoever prevails must not find easy passage from the north."

"I am afraid I bring ill news on that front, Your Grace," Qyburn replied. "My spies tell me that the Tullys have somehow won the war at Seagard, and that the trident lords have named Ser Edmure their king. They have hence returned to the Twins. If we offer them terms of alliance, Edmure is certain to refuse."

Cersei was angered. She knew she ought to have consolidated on the Riverlands after Walder Frey's murder, but Jaime had advised her against it. _The day my brother lost his hand, he also did his wits._ Stark, Tully, Arryn… the bastard king could build an alliance of his own if he wished. "We will need sellswords to recover lost lands."

"We will," Qyburn agreed, "but I am no expert in that regard."

Qyburn was beginning to vex her. _I need more men, able men, in this court._ "What about the dragons? Have you figured out a way to stop them, or is nothing your area of expertise?"

Qyburn's chuckle was defensive, but reassuring. "I would be grateful if Your Grace maintains patience. The making of the ballista is in progress; it should be ready when the time for war arrives. Speaking of which, Euron Greyjoy sends a raven."

Cersei was startled. "And?"

Qyburn tried to maintain the tranquility in his voice, but Cersei could hear the joy. "It is done."

As chained men burned to ashes in front of the Iron Throne, Cersei's smile was wide. The smoke filled the room and made horrified commoners cough violently, but to Cersei it smelled of victory. Fleetingly, she pictured Tyrion Lannister tied with chains, roasting in perdition. Her smile grew wider.

**5\. The Twins**

It was time to see if Lord Petyr Baelish's words were as strong as stone.

While Sansa, Brienne, Podrick and the battalion of a thousand northmen waited behind, Baelish galloped to the gates of the Crossing with an envoy of not more than a dozen knights of the Vale. An equal number of men from the Twins trotted up to Baelish, in all likelihood some bastard children of the late Lord Frey. Sansa had already warned her men to stay alert. If Baelish and the Freys were planning to take her hostage, Sansa's men outnumbered them three to one.

Soon, she saw Petyr return to the battalion. _He is worried,_ Sansa saw before he spoke. "Lady Sansa, I may require your assistance. Lady Brienne, if you would kindly accompany us as well?"

Brienne was never like to leave Sansa's side, yet she found it odd that Petyr explicitly requested her presence at the parley. As the trio trotted towards the Freys, Sansa's apprehension manifested in a piercing comment at Littlefinger. "You told me the Freys would let us be. Must it come to war, then?"

"Absolutely not," said Baelish confidently. "Safe passage to the Vale is imminent. The only complication lies in the men I just met. They are not Freys."

Sansa had no time to express surprise – by then, they were within earshot of those in front of them. Her eyes instinctively turned to the sigil of their clothing. With one look at the silver trout, all was clear.

Brynden the Blackfish looked much older than the last time Sansa saw him, times when he infrequently visited Winterfell. His hair had turned from grey to white and wrinkles were looser, but his eyes gleamed like a child as, after a second of puzzlement, he recognized the daughter of Catelyn Tully. Before Sansa could react, she found herself bound in a bear hug by his great uncle. He smelled of salt and ale, which Sansa thought more fragrant than the scents of King's Landing.

"Uncle Brynden!" Sansa managed to say. "I did not know you were alive!"

The Blackfish broke the hug. "Neither did I, if you ask me," he said in cheerful rasps. "I wondered if it was the wrong choice to ignore Lady Brienne's pleas to accompany her to you, back at Riverrun. I had to barely escape the place with my life. I left my own home to Frey mice, with nothing to live for. They were dark days, me waiting for them to pursue me and end it. None ever came. It seems the cowardly roaches told the Kingslayer of my demise rather than my escape."

Brynden's tone changed, becoming grimmer and with more steel. "I traveled to the Twins in disguise, hoping to catch a glimpse of old man Walder Frey and end him before he ended me. That was the best plan I had. Instead, I found someone better. If you want to thank someone for my life, thank not the gods, but the man standing beside me. It seems some years in the dungeons has made a king of my nephew." The tone was harsh, but pride was partly present.

The scarred, bearded man beside Uncle Brynden hardly reacted to his comments. He looked less a king and more a tramp, but his envoy seemed to hold him in such reverence that there was no doubt he was their leader. Amidst the masses of hair he sported, the crown was hard to miss, but Sansa eventually saw it. Till now he had not spoken a word, glaring at everyone with eyes of stone, but after the Blackfish recognized Sansa, and upon him recognizing Brienne of Tarth – once Lady Catelyn's sworn guard – his countenance softened.

As he struggled for words, Sansa saw him to be overcome with emotion. Finally, he spoke. "Sansa, allow me to express my deepest sympathies at the death of your mother and brother. Every second of every day the Freys kept me hostage in their dungeons, I dreamed of their extermination by root and stem. After the last of their pests died at Seagard, I hope I have given some consolation."

With acquaintances made, King Edmure Tully made promises that Houses Stark and Arryn may continue their path to the Vale unharmed. Sansa expressed her delight and promised to send Jon a raven to discuss terms of alliance with the Tullys, should he survive the war with Daenerys. Baelish, in his own way of offering an alliance, spoke of his gratitude and promised to return the favor in the future.

**6\. Meereen**

Now that the Sons of the Harpy were history, nighttime was once again a pretty sight in this city. Market squares were beginning to find its buyers, fire priestesses singing songs of Daenerys found crowd, and eager men lost the fear of having their throats slit in brothels. The pyramids of the city still cast grim shadows on the city by moonlight, a reminder of the powerful who wielded in Meereen influence, but having had a taste of the queen's justice, any attempt to usurp governance was gone. After a state of war, it was always beautiful to see the rebirth of a city, for after rock bottom, there is no way to go but up.

Jorah Mormont wondered how Daenerys would react at the failure of Dragon's Bay when riots would plague it after Daario Naharis would leave to play the game in Westeros. _Maybe I should have said more_, Jorah told himself, but Mormont was never good as persuasion. He failed to persuade his wife to remain loyal, failed to win his queen's love, and failed to stand beside her as she wreathed in Westeros fire and blood. However, it was not those failures that stung him as much as his last.

_I command you to find the cure. I command you to heal yourself._

Jorah had tried. With little coin in hand, he traveled to the maesters of Oldtown and five of the nine Free Cities. When all hope seemed lost, he was told of fire priestesses and _maegi's_ at Dragon's Bay, but the only cure he heard was of a painless death.

Jorah would rather let the grayscale take over him completely than give up on his queen's commands. Even if a fraction of his mind was functional, he would devote it to ridding his body of this plague. But perhaps the time had come to distance himself from daily interactions with people. It was a miracle that the scale had not spread in this crowded city, and Jorah intended to keep it that way.

It was for that reason that he, in the dead of the night, exited the gates of Meereen, uncertain of where his next path would take him. Before the city was out of sight, he turned to look at the sea, perhaps expecting a fleet of Second Sons silently sailing away in the night, but there was nothing save the soft sloshing of waves.

**7\. Highgarden**

As lions and krakens danced together, Jaime saw from a distance with his broken hand.

The whiteness of the castle contrasted well with small black specks he saw, opposing and clashing each other, sometimes strewing in the air blood red. Jaime's eyes followed the war, but his mind was at Pyke, picturing Tyrion Lannister's corpse floating in its crimson shores. The dreams had not stopped since he was told. Some nights Cersei floated in the waters as well, and Jaime woke up feeling in the pits of his chest immense joy, before he rectified his emotions.

Euron Greyjoy's cackles from afar pierced his ears, despite him surveying the massacre a hillside away. _The man is mad._ Jaime stared, wordless at the joy with which his forces devoured what remained of the Tyrells. The same man was stony, unsmiling and almost disinterested in front of the Iron Throne when seeking alliances but when in battle, there would be little differentiating him from beasts. _He is of two faces_, Jaime thought, seeing Euron jump and dance around, even in a war as incontestable as such, and close to its climax anyway.

Ultimately, the battle was incontestable because Daenerys Targaryen foolishly commanded men she did not need to fight against an enemy she ought to have friended. If Tyrion were not murdered, the Dragon Queen would not have been threatened enough to carry an entire entourage of men to fight the northerners. The war between Stark and Targaryen had given Cersei a fortuitous advantage. _Was it lucky, or did the bitch plan it?_

Jaime's musings were interrupted by Randyll Tarly's hooves, climbing up the hillside to meet him. He was full of soot and smelled of dead people, and despite the victory no smile succeeded in escaping his face. "It is done," he spoke with militaristic efficacy. "She waits inside."

_Leave it to me to slay your queen, Tarly._ As Jaime trotted past heaps of corpses into the castle, he wondered why he once bragged about being the best knight in the Seven Kingdoms. Euron Greyjoy had not stopped cackling – the man had taken complete leave of his senses. Before him were knights looting what they could, and in the castle distant shouts of women being raped in its corners, voices everyone pretended to mishear. _The part we all leave out in the songs._

Tyrion Lannister had not left his mind when Jaime entered Olenna's chambers. The Queen of Thorns looked amused for a woman mere minutes away from complete blackness; indeed, she was whistling away 'The Rains of Castamere' like a toddler. Jaime was reminded of the times Tyrion whistled the song, and Olenna's toots angered him.

"How will it happen?" were her first words, sporting a silly, uncharacteristic smile.

Jaime pulled the vial out and poured it in Olenna's wine. "I cannot promise it will be entirely painless, but better than to be publicly whipped or drowned with wildfire."

"Yes." Olenna sounded almost grateful, gulping down the drink as if it were nectar. The moment the last drops disappeared, the Queen of Thorns dissolved into another fit of laughter. Upon gazing at Jaime's confused countenance, she restrained herself enough to provide explanation. "Do you know what I was thinking, sitting up here and watching my loyal bunch of useless cunts lie down for bigger cunts? The last thing I would wish was to be slain by a Lannister, so I found a dagger and tried to end it by myself. But before I mustered the courage, one of your lot came and stopped me. Here I was, wondering if I had lost my chance, if I was to be flayed or raped, only to learn that it would happen much easier. But it must be poetic, I suppose, to be killed in the same manner as I did to that cock Joffrey. If there was one regret I hold, it is that he was the only Lannister I managed to murder, but-"

Olenna froze in her words, for Jaime's dagger was out. Without any warning, he slashed it against her throat, pleased to hear the laughter cease. She was not quite dead yet – Jaime's weaker hand had done a poor job at finishing its target. _No matter._

If the Queen of Thorns had not killed King Joffrey, Tyrion would not have been accused of murder. His brother may have lived, his father may not have been killed, and Jaime himself may have had a chance at redemption. It was that he kept fresh in his mind as he pounced on the old lady, stabbing daggers at her stomach. _You killed Tyrion. You killed him. You killed him._


	7. Season 7 Episode 7

**1\. Highgarden**

It had been hours since the death of Olenna, but if anything, Jaime Lannister's fury had surged.

After the battle, plans earlier prepared had now been set into motion. Randyll Tarly was one of Olenna's trusted men, a vital cog in managing her accounts, and were it not for him, it would have taken them days to load the gold on their carts instead of hours. Some of the wagons would be sent to King's Landing but most to Casterly Rock, one of the safest places in war-torn Westeros. The men were ready to leave by nightfall, but Jaime ordered them to travel at daybreak, when chances of loot and plunder were slimmer.

The other lords of the Reach quickly pledged fealty to Houses Tarly and Lannister at break of dawn, but it was the people that would need better convincing. Tarly went to entertain them, and Jaime prepared his departure. As per the plan, he was to take his army and march to Dorne, thereby giving Cersei a vice-grip from the Twins to the Arbor. It was a thought meant to please, but did nothing but scare and anger. Yet Jaime had known the costs of choosing conscience over duty. _It mustn't do to please the bards praying for me to turn Queen as well as Kingslayer._

As Jaime was mere minutes away from sounding the command to march, Euron Greyjoy rode in his direction, carrying in his hand a parchment. _How is it, that a man who has not been at sea for half a moon yet reeks of salt and seafood?_ "A raven from King's Landing, Lord Commander," he said, voice quick, quiet, deep and sober. Jaime fought the sudden urge to laugh in his face – the contrast between Euron in battle and outside of it was as comical as it was eerie. What stopped him from doing so was the sudden, involuntary fear that Euron may, in a fit of rage, attempt to snap his neck.

When Jaime read the letter, his inward smiles faded, and the rage lurking underneath resurfaced. To Euron, he reaffirmed the prime contents of the letter – that Cersei wished for them to siege Winterfell instead of Dorne. But that was not the source of Jaime's rage.

_This raven is addressed not to me, but to him._

Jaime knew Cersei well enough to assume that addressing the raven to Euron was no oversight. He had earlier presumed Cersei's plans of marriage with the salt-smelling cunt to be a ruse to win an ally, but it now seemed like an ugly ploy to lord her power over him, a threat of refusal. Even if their plans of marriage were genuine, Jaime felt the antipathy set in. _Both of them are similar anyway, quiet on the outside, perverse monsters within._

The rage was now pounding through his veins, making his head ache. Jaime had tolerated Cersei's accusations toward Tyrion, her disastrous reign as Queen Regent, even the collapse of Baelor for the façade of duty. Yet one night of refusing to spill his seed in her and Cersei had sent him away to war. _I'd rather cut off my cock than stick it inside her again._ Jaime had half a mind to order his troops to visit every brothel in Highgarden and rest at Casterly Rock, but instead stuck slave to duty. "We march to Winterfell," he told his troops.

Exiting Highgarden was a nasty, slow process, not less when Jaime wanted succor and quiet to think about Tyrion and Cersei. Many screams were toward Jaime, commoners unwilling to believe Randyll Tarly's part in the battle, choosing to believe he was a begrudging pawn in the Kingslayer's unholy schemes. _Whoever said history was written by the winners?_

Jaime tried to march away without incident, trying to be understanding of the fact that they had lost their Lady. But when a young lad tore through the crowd and began hitting his horse, in that moment, he was Olenna, he was Euron and he was Cersei. Jaime Lannister swung his gold hand across the brute's face, feeling delight at the sound of his teeth falling to the ground like pebbles.

**2\. Blazewater Bay**

When Varys saw dead ravens floating in the sea, he knew at once the ship must halt.

The storms had not stopped, and it was with great difficulty that the ironborn managed to dock their ship on a nearby tiny island. Daenerys had ordered other ships continue their course while theirs waited behind. Viserion and Rhaegal appeared soon after, soaked and weary, while Drogon had presumably flown elsewhere. _If so many people are trying to reach me in these conditions, the news can either be very good or very bad._

Within hours another raven arrived, struggling through the thunderstorm, flopping dead on the banks of the island. Before the waves could gobble it up, Varys picked up the bird, uncorked the drenched canister and read the news. He hardly registered Rhaegal crunching on the dead raven beside him, such was his attention diverted. _Bad._

Varys whispered the news in his queen's ears, unsure how she would see fit to react. The moment he was done, Daenerys spoke aloud, so that Ellaria Sand, Lady Missandei, Grey Worm and Qhono, Dany's Dothraki lieutenant, could hear. "Lady Olenna Tyrell has been killed, and with it our alliance with Highgarden. I must apologize. Cersei Lannister has taken advantage of my lack of knowledge in war."

Varys looked at the reactions of all. Missandei and Grey Worm were shocked, while he detected a hint of fear in Ellaria's slits. Qhono, in an odd sort of manner, looked disappointed. However, the biggest reaction he hoped to see was from the messenger herself. Varys was uncertain where, at this revelation, the priorities of Daenerys lay, but when she spoke, her words were music. "Ellaria, I command you to sail to Dorne."

Ellaria looked shocked. "Your Grace, I will die with my men…"

"I'm afraid you misunderstand me. Sail to Dorne with your men."

Ellaria was about to reply, but Daenerys did not let her. "Enough. The Iron Throne is not a game. Not only have we lost an ally, but Westeros has lost innocent people. Blood must be shed only of those who deserve it, and the people of Sunspear certainly do not. In my first test of battle against a Westerosi king, I have forgotten what matters most. Not the margin of my victory, nor the size of my army, but the lives of the people I claim to protect."

Dany's impressive armada grew smaller as Dornish ships parted, but the opposite could be said of Varys' respect for his queen. "Ellaria will not show it, but she is thankful," he told her. "Placing the lives of people over this war was a very selfless act indeed."

Whenever Varys presented Daenerys with compliments her face molded into stone, as if praise was immune to her. It was a brave face, even if Varys was certain on some level the praise had registered. However, this time Daenerys looked thoughtful and genuinely oblivious to his approval. "If it is," she said, in response. "why I am sending good men are to die in this battle?"

**3\. Barrowton**

Barrow Hall was scarce noticeable at the top of the hill, while the small town built around it entirely invisible. On summer days, the slopes were presumably left open for cattle and farming, but in formidable monsoon they were abandoned. It was at the foot of Barrowton that ten thousand warriors arrived wet and wheezing at break of day, desperate for shelter from thundering rain and hail. "Keep in mind the banquets awaiting us at the top," Davos told Jon Snow, both looking up at the grim quest that awaited them.

For all Jon had heard about the place when at Winterfell, it was the first time he had been to the Barrowlands. He had to suppose it was a place that looked beautiful in summer months. As spare streaks of sunlight broke its way through imposing clouds, the sight of melted snow and puddles filled with muck and shit did little to brighten their morning struggles.

_Arya would have hated this place_, Jon caught himself thinking. Then again, he realized, the Arya he knew was of many years ago, one who preferred swordplay in the mud to knitting and dancing. He would never know how she was after they left Winterfell; if her time in exile made a lady of her.

Even torrents of thundering hail had not kept her out of Jon's mind. _How can I say for certain that she died at Pyke? What if this is an excuse by Daenerys to wage this war?_ As the northmen trudged closer and closer to the top, hamlets and villages began getting denser. Many were awake and outside their homes, looking at marching men with more curiosity than fright. Jon saw them with an uncertain apprehension gripping him. What if he had made the wrong choice in declaring war instead of suing for peace? _Am I condemning this town to its extinction?_

As it became clearer these were not men looking to attack, the villagers came closer. Jon did not know if the direwolf sigil gave it away or if Lady Barbrey Dustin kept her subjects informed, but all of a sudden, hails of _King Snow!_ sprung from the crowd. Some tried to offer him food, while old men bowed to him like he was the personification of the old gods. It was inevitable that commoners began asking how he rose from the dead. "Word travels fast around Westeros, does it not?" Davos said with a grim chuckle.

As Jon shook hands and answered questions, trying to be king to his subjects, rain showed little signs of relent. Soon enough, the old men left for shelter underneath humble abodes, leaving behind youths and children. When one of them, as tall as Arya when Jon last saw her, begged him to be sent Daenerys Targaryen's severed head, Jon knew lines had been crossed. As he rode away from her mutely, resuming the arduous journey to Barrow Hall, he wondered if Lord Eddard Stark met little kids who wished for such spoils of war.

**4\. The Northlands**

Garrett Greenspear was big, burly with a beard redder than fire, and for someone who spent years at the Night's Watch, extraordinarily cheery. The other twenty men in black, Bran was thankful to know, were anything but. They walked like solemn omens, behind and in front of him, determined to avoid conversation, while Garrett did his best to pass the time with tales that could not conceivably be true.

He claimed to be born from detached frozen leaves of weirwood trees, impregnated by rain and snow chaste as citrine. Garrett's blood was originally leaf green, of course, but after being found and raised by wildlings, it gradually turned crimson, as did his hair.

On other days, Bran would have delved into the past and endured head and heartache simply to prove the falsity of Garrett's claims, but the fever had worsened, preventing him from doing so. He felt dreadfully uncomfortable, Meera heaving him forward from behind while he lied there, covered in cold water and soaked clothes, with nothing to do but sleep. Bran had tried warging into nearby ravens to pass the time, but when he came back the fever would have worsened.

Sleep gave no respite either. Since the fall, Bran was never certain if his dreams were genuine or the product of confused visions – recently, he saw that he was a brave knight with legs healed, charging at King's Landing to face Jaime Lannister in single combat. He was close to victory, slicing away the Kingslayer's sword hand, but before he could thrust steel between his shoulder blades, relentless downpouring of hail and snow brought him back to his withered, mangled state.

Bran was dreadfully uncomfortable. The thought that their grueling journey had hardly begun made him want to cry. Yet he kept his misery to himself, tolerating the jests of Garrett, who mayhaps thought them to be on a hero's quest and would be rewarded by gold and women at its climax.

Sleep found him from nowhere, and before long he was standing on functional feet. He was at the top of the Wall, but it was not as cold now. Indeed, Bran felt warmth stemming from below, his legs feeling nice and cozy. Bran felt his toes again, realized his fever had disappeared and supposed that, were he to jump from the height of the Wall to its foot, he would have cashed in on the happiest he felt in years.

Then the heat became barbaric, torching his feet and setting it to flames. Bran gasped and hopped on them, suddenly cherishing the cold which never was. The great structure of ice and stone rang out cracks loud enough to shatter ears, and before he knew it, Bran was falling into its bowers. The Wall had collapsed upon itself… and arising from its icy depths was the giant winged monster, screeching from its mouths fire and fury.

Brandon Stark woke up, wailing.

**5\. The Eastern Road**

When it was time to climb the hills of the Eyrie, it was no wonder the battalion separated.

Sansa Stark found that her previous ascent of the Mountains of the Moon helped her in this one considerably. Indeed, Petyr Baelish and she easily led the pack on horseback. Brienne of Tarth was not far behind, but others nowhere to be seen. Sansa suggested they pause for their men to arrive, but after a few minutes the only one who did was poor Podrick Payne, red-faced and gleaming after a bumpy ride on his horse, yet determined to prove he was as agile as the knight he served.

"I have sent a raven to the Eyrie," Baelish said. "They are on their way down to escort us to the top. I would suggest we wait till they arrive. Who knows what the woods hold?"

Sansa replied in the negative. The woods were darkening, but she would be surprised if Stone Crows dared interfere their voyage – they had presumably seen the thousand men at the foot of the hills and decided against it. "We go on," she said.

The sight of Pod lumbering made Sansa feel as much pity for him as it did amusement. It was for his sake that she slowed down to have a chat with, while Brienne and Baelish dawdled ahead. "The journey is difficult for those who have never been on these rocks before."

Podrick seemed alarmed that Sansa had decided to make conversation with him. "Don't mind me, m'lady," he said swiftly. "I don't mean to bother you… I can wait back if-"

"No, no," Sansa said, suppressing a giggle. "You do not intrude anything. When I was in King's Landing, all the lords, ladies and the king frightened me silly, enough to keep my mouth shut. I would not like that to happen to you. I hope you trust me as much as I trust you."

The squire stopped his horse, too tired to react while riding. His face formed a weak, indolent smile in gratitude. But before lips parted in reply, the distant sound of a _whoosh_ neared, and a spear pierced through his eye.

Podrick fell from his horse wordlessly, slamming his head on a rock beside. As Sansa screamed, Pod's horse sprinted into the woods. Sansa saw hill tribes emerge, behind rocks and trees, spears and rusty swords in their hands.

_Fifteen, twenty of them._

She ducked, just in time to hear another spear singing over her head. Hooves from ahead rapidly charged in her direction. _This is how I'm going to die._

The sound of steel on flesh made Sansa look back up. A figure dueled with a group of five, clad in thick silver armor. _Brienne._ Screams and grunts ruled the air as she held them back, her Valyrian steel no match for their spears and stones. Other members of the mountain clan snuck at Brienne from behind, hoping to catch her unawares.

"Brienne, behind you!" Sansa yelled, before they could attack. One of them was reminded of Sansa's presence and ran towards her. She tried to flee with her horse, but it threw her over and fled.

Podrick's lifeless body lay beside her. The hilt of a sword glinted from beneath. As the raider charged towards her, Sansa yanked at it, but under Podrick's weight it refused to budge. _Come on, please!_

Blood splattered Sansa's face. The raider fell on her, screaming in agony. Sansa tried to push him aside, but he was too heavy. Sansa shrieked. Her tongue tasted his blood.

The raider flopped besides and was soon as lifeless as Podrick. The man who pushed him, Petyr Baelish, stood over her, bloody dagger in hand. His left hand was drenched with blood, eyes full of hate, but they dissolved as soon as they made eye contact with Sansa. "Are you hurt?" he asked, but Sansa could barely hear him. She saw Brienne fighting mountain raiders in front of her with Ghost. Her eyes and mind felt hazy, senses rapidly dimming. Behind her was the faint sound of frantically sprinting men, as the northern force finally caught up.

_We're saved,_ she thought. As Sansa Stark fell faint, the last thing she remembered ringing in her ears were the howls of Ghost.

**6\. Barrow Hall**

The final pretenses of sunlight were exterminated by the overcast sky. Candlelights and lanterns fought feeble battles against overwhelming, darkening silence. Lords Wyman Manderly, Cley Cerwyn, Robett Glover… all under one roof, eating their supper, lost in thought after news circulated of Daenerys' impending arrival. A few cast their eyes towards him, hoping for words of encouragement. Jon Snow looked at his men. _I must be the light._

He stood up and at once, all eyes were on him. "It has taken a long time for the North to be united again," he said, voice ringing across the hall. "We have come together suffering, ravaged yet by the deaths of our lords, our uncles, our fathers, whose shoes we still struggle to fill. But even after losing that war and the death of King Robb, we have endured.

"When Robb called his banners to fight against House Lannister, I must confess that for a moment, I forgot my loyalties laid north of Winterfell. If it were not for my friends in black, I would have discarded my vows to fight alongside my brother. In hindsight, I know how that would have ended. Robb Stark was honorable, a man who only called the fury of Winterfell to avenge his father. He would have done his duty and executed me as a deserter of the Night's Watch.

"And so, I did my duty. I froze on the edge of the world, hearing my family perish through ravens. And when Sansa came, telling me about the ruin of Winterfell, we fought to overthrow the Bastard of Bolton, to take the justice we could.

"The north is more than the size of its armies. In fact, it's nothing without the people they rule. If Daenerys fails to understand this, and wishes to wage war where innocents may die, we must do our duty. We will meet her, but only with sword, steel and victory!"

By the time Jon had finished, the chants were loud enough to scare away the darkness. The people in the hall seemed ready to charge on White Walkers were they right outside. Manderly and Cerwyn thumped their flasks on the table yelling Jon's name. Lord Glover and Lady Dustin looked at him in screaming silence, and when Jon made eye contact, gave the briefest of nods in nonverbal assent.

Amidst jubilant chaos, Jon saw Davos approach him. He was the only one not cheering. "There is someone you must meet," he said hurriedly.

**7\. King's Landing**

_We must make peace with those we hate,_ Cersei Lannister kept telling herself – but it was hard to, while watching Tycho Nestoris slither in his seat like a reptile, the joy in his eyes too obvious to ignore when he was informed of the Sack of Highgarden. She had repaid him some of his debt and told him to collect the rest from Casterly Rock.

"And I suppose the castellan, Harys Swyft, shall not be a problem?"

Cersei almost laughed. Harys Swyft, Gilbert Farring, Qyburn, Jaime… she was surrounded with sheep, sheep with nothing to live for should the lioness they fear leave them alone. "He shall not."

As she saw Nestoris ride away with his ridiculously dressed escort, away from the Red Keep, it was impossible to ignore the lack of commoners on the streets. She summoned Qyburn to enjoy the silence. "See?" she told him when he arrived. "The protests have stopped. The people simply needed to be told what they have always known: their gods are a disgrace, and their lives can only amount to the pleasure of their queen."

"Perhaps, Your Grace," said Qyburn, conceding defeat now that he had been proven wrong. "Bronn tells me that attacks on the gold cloaks have certainly reduced. It seems for now they have chosen to obey, but I have found that complaining voices will quiet for good only when they are truly heard."

"That's what thinkers and artists with harps believe. I know different. Ruling is about strangling the cubs before their teeth sharpen." She remembered her dear dead brother. "If Tyrion had not found himself into an early grave, he would have ensured I found mine."

**8\. Barrowton**

Chained to his own boat, Theon Greyjoy waited for Jon or Sansa to arrive, while rain gods pelted him from above with hail. _They will understand,_ he thought, uncertain what fate awaited him. _If there is anyone who understands the folly of war, it's the Starks._ But as the wait grew longer, Theon felt the fear get more and more violent.

Sansa was not there, but Theon recognized Jon. He seemed to be chatting with the man besides. He was entirely oblivious to Theon being chained to the boat until his mate pointed him out. Jon bent to look at him in bewilderment, and in a few seconds, saw the confusion turn to hatred.

"I heard you serve Daenerys Targaryen," he said, by means of introduction. "Why? Was sacking Winterfell not betrayal enough?" He pulled out his sword.

"Wait!" Theon yelled, shuddering. "I come of my own accord!"

Jon looked at his mate, and back at him. "What you did for Sansa," he said slowly, sheathing his sword, "is the only reason I am letting you speak."

Words failed to reach Theon's tongue. He stammered, thinking of the right words to say, but when he saw Jon, old memories bled open. It was only now that he realized how much Jon Snow's clothing resembled Robb's.

"_Speak!"_

"I- I seek asylum," Theon mustered. "I bring- I bring a gift!"

Jon's countenance was hard to judge through the black of the night. He looked at his mate, perhaps in confusion, who then pointed at the boat. Theon could not bear to look at Jon, as he approached the boat slowly to see the cold eyes of Arya Stark staring back at him.

Everyone was dripping in rain, but through the faint cracking of his voice, Theon could tell that Jon was weeping. "You call this a gift?" he said quietly.

"A poor choice of words!" Theon said hastily. "The seas killed her at Pyke, not me. I wanted to bring her body to you, to Sansa, so that she could be buried in the crypts. I want her to be safe. I want to be safe, I want someone to keep me safe." Streams of tears flowed through Theon, at that moment, he cared not what Jon's judgement would be. "I want to be safe… I do not want to fight for Daenerys." His voice cracked. "I do not… want to fight… anymore…"

Jon was silent throughout his breakdown. When Theon had composed himself, he spoke slowly. "Not many minutes ago, I spoke to my bannermen about honor and duty. I then came here to find a man who betrayed my brother to please a father who hated him. A man who swore allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen, then abandoned her. You left your queen, your sister, your people of Pyke… and you expect asylum from _me?_"

Jon unsheathed his sword again and this time threw the scabbard away, to prevent him from temptation. "Do not blame Balon Greyjoy, you cunt. Do not blame Daenerys Targaryen, do not blame war nor Westeros. It's not them. It's _you_." He looked around, and then at his mate. "Ser Davos," he said, "there is a fallen tree beside us. Unchain Theon from the boat, but make sure his hands and feet are tightly bound. Make his head rest on the tree. Hold him from behind." He looked at Theon with eyes unrecognizable. "I, Jon, of the House Stark, Protector and King in the North, sentence you to die."

Reek shrieked as he tried to get away, but the hands of Davos were firm. _Please,_ he wanted to say, _talk to Sansa, don't do this, I have changed, I will be loyal, I don't want any more blood spilled,_ but all that came out were yells. He wanted to be brave, he wanted to prove he had changed, but when the chance came to say it, words failed to find him.

Davos made him kneel.

"She has _three dragons!_" he yelled as a last resort. "An army of nearly ninety thousand, of Dothraki, of Unsullied! I know how she will attack! I can help you win, if you let me live!"

He lay kneeling there, wet fungus of the fallen tree against his Adam's apple. He looked at Jon, unmoving, in sheer silence of word and deed. Theon Greyjoy could not tell if he was contemplating his offer, or if his fate was predestined.

Jon Snow finally spoke.

"You do not deserve to live, neither as informant nor parasite."

Longclaw descended.


	8. Season 7 Episode 8

**1\. The Eyrie**

Sansa Stark awoke alone to thick blankets and fluffed pillows. She heard winds howl inside her chambers, but coverlets protected her from cold. She wanted to rest, to melt and die happy inside her sheets, safe from winter and war. Then she remembered.

_Podrick._

Within the minute, Sansa had changed and was out of her chambers. She passed handmaids and attendants in corridors and colonnades, some of whom she recognized from her previous visit to the Vale but could not find Baelish.

Then, in the distance, Sansa saw her. Huge and slightly lumbering, with gleaming blue eyes, she was near the snowy courtyard where Robin Arryn had once kicked at Sansa's castle. Brienne of Tarth noticed her the same time she did. The area over her left ear was heavily bandaged. "Are you all right, Lady Sansa?" she asked, when they came closer.

"Forget about me, I feel perfectly fine," she said hastily. "How is Podrick? Is he still alive? Where is he now?" Brienne, in response, mutely pointed to a corner of the snowy courtyard. Sansa could see nothing there save a half-buried rock covered in white. She immediately understood.

"I _told_ him I did not need someone to squire for me…" Brienne was saying. "He could have simply stayed at Winterfell like I told him to. Meaningless… absolutely meaningless…" Her sigh was full of sorrow. She composed herself. "There has never lived a more loyal squire."

"Indeed." Sansa could not see it fit to sing songs on Podrick's death, seeing she knew him so little. Instead, she played the part of the lady. "Brienne," she said, "I want you to send a raven to Jon and Lyanna. Tell them Alayne Stone has reached the Eyrie. Inform them of the death of Podrick. I must insist you alone do this: I cannot trust anyone greater. I know Littlefinger saved my life, but…"

Brienne interrupted her. "Have you not seen him yet?"

The sense of mild incredulousness puzzled Sansa. "Not yet. Why do you ask?"

"I suggest you do," she said shortly, face revealing little. When Sansa left her to find Baelish, she heard Brienne following her. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Are you on your way to the rookeries?"

"Not yet, Lady Sansa. I must take responsibility for the death of Podrick, and taking responsibility includes proper steps to prevent reoccurrences. Be it during battles or clipping nails, I shall not leave your side. Permit me to be the shield between you and death."

**2\. Saltspear**

The last Dragon Council was for confirming the strategies than thinking of more. Queen Daenerys Targaryen spoke while Varys, Qhono, he and other lords listened. A man named Paxter Redwyne was also present, commander of forty thousand Tyrell men. "Jon Snow has done us a favor," she was saying. "Varys says he has five thousand men in the ruins of keep Goldgrass, in case we had decided to dock west of the sea. In Barrow Hall lay ten thousand, the bulk of his forces with the bastard king himself. Grey Worm, take all your eight thousand men of Unsullied and siege Goldgrass. Ensure that no man leaves the keep, but do not attack or lose men until I command it. The aim is to keep those men away from battle, alone and harmless."

Grey Worm voiced his thoughts to his queen. "This we will do for our queen readily."

"I know it will be difficult to maintain the siege in this weather," she told him. "I had hoped the storms would settle by the time we approached Barrowton, but if anything, fierce rain has been replaced with fierce snow. No matter. I do not plan on sieging Barrow Hall at all. If the King in the North has any sense he will surrender at the sight of my men."

"The Unsullied will keep Goldgrass under siege through the winter if need be."

Queen Daenerys smiled, before giving him leave. Grey Worm thought the saw the queen smile before he was dismissed. The thought that the Breaker of Chains was given reason to smile by him filled Grey Worm with pride. He did not show it, though – instead, he walked around the ship, yelling across ships to his fellow men, giving them orders to dock west and march to Goldgrass, white mist escaping his mouth.

As he walked, something grabbed him by the hand and swiftly pulled him inside a chamber. Grey Worm was about to reach for his dagger but recognized the touch, knowing who he was with despite the chamber being full of blackness. "Missandei?"

It was the only word that escaped Grey Worm's lips before she kissed him. Grey Worm felt her breasts press against him as they clung to each other, locking lips. He reached up to squeeze them, and realized they were not covered by any clothing. _She is already naked._

"Do not die," Missandei whispered to them, as her hands groped underneath his clothes, feeling his chest. "I will not," he murmured back, breaths heavy as he touched her sex. Grey Worm's lips moved from her face to her breasts, sucking them as if it were the last time he could. They moved further and further below, until they were kissing wetness. _At least I have a tongue,_ he thought, as he slipped it inside her.

As Missandei moaned, Grey Worm's pride swelled further.

**3\. Barrow Hall**

Battle plans took a turn in light of recent news. Hundreds of archers were added to rooftops, huge spears were unearthed from dungeons and Ser Davos Seaworth personally went around informing every lord, lady and soldier of the three dragons. While the Onion Knight had first been assigned to guarding the front gates, he would now be on the roofs. Davos was surprised to find that despite the update, many seemed unfazed, dreams of victory yet intact. _They are willing to walk through fire for their king,_ Davos mused. _They may have to._

Maester Avery found him while Davos was on the rooftops. "Ravens," he said shortly. "The king needs to read this."

Davos found Jon in his chambers, in the process of donning his armor. He decided to break the bittersweet news first, that of Sansa Stark's safe arrival at the Vale of Arryn, coupled with Podrick's untimely death. But before Jon reacted to that, Davos read out the contents of the second, one of greater pertinence.

"_Let the past be the past, kneel to me and rise again as Lord of Winterfell,_" he finished.

"That would please her, would it not?" Jon replied, in tones that suggested he was considering anything but. "Throw her message in the fire. Any peace between Stark and Targaryen died with Arya."

Jon dressed for the battle without the help of a squire, or at least tried to. After a while, Davos knew he had to intervene. As he helped Jon tighten his chainmail, he said, "Speaking of your sister, you need not worry; her body is being carried back to Winterfell with thirty good men."

The mention of his sister made Jon silent again, bar the mention of a quick thanks. He stood silent as Davos helped him wear his armor, looking at the letter Daenerys Targaryen had sent, its remnants smoldering in the fire. Davos knew that in these silent moments of contemplation, it was his job to refocus his mind on what mattered.

"The Dothraki are sure to suffer," he said. "They have known nothing but summer lands, and after weeks of voyaging by sea, I can bet my remaining fingers all their lust for war will be vomited out of them. It also helps that the idiots do not wear armor. They will have to throw their might at us, but as long as our men on windows and roofs do their job, we will cause a lot of damage."

"What do you think of our chances?" Jon said, eyes still in the fire.

Davos knew his honesty was why he had Jon's ear more than the other northern lords. _There is more of Stannis in him than he knows._ "They outnumber us ten-to-one," he said, "but their army is of southerners and foreigners who have known nothing but summer. They do not have the men for siege. Our plan was solid."

"Was?"

Davos recalled Theon's startling admission before his head separated from his body. "Well, if the Greyjoy was to be believed, we did not account for her dragons," he said, trying to be as casual as possible, and failing miserably.

**4\. Saltspear**

Daenerys Targaryen felt the chill but surprisingly, the Dothraki did not. She was worried that the sea and the weather would work against them, but instead lust and anticipation for war trounced everything else. They charged around their ships, chanting and roaring, sharpening their _arakhs_, even though Barrowton was an evening away.

If the weather did work against someone, it was Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion. The three were finally together after weeks of disappearance, perhaps knowing war was near, but none of them looked ready. Continuous downpour seemed to have done a number on them, and apart from Drogon, the dragons looked like tired, meek reptiles ready to be harnessed as cattle. _If all goes well, I must not even need them._

Jon Snow had defeated Ramsay Bolton with an army of wildlings and men from the Vale, but he could not stop her. She had eighty thousand Dothraki led by Qhono and a gathering of forty thousand strong men from the Reach going into this war. _When I outnumber him nearly ten-to-one, must we go through the formalities of war?_

She looked around at the Dothraki and the Tyrells, wondering who would die in this futile formality of a battle. She wished it were none. Daenerys had little doubt the battle was hers for the taking, but perhaps it was time to see the greater picture. She had Varys send the northmen multiple ravens, all once again reiterating for Jon to bend the knee. _Tyrion Lannister has died,_ they had said, _but so has Arya Stark. Let the past be the past, kneel to me and rise again as Lord of Winterfell. Wave white flags on the rooftops of Barrow Hall, and I will know of your surrender._ She did not know if the ravens had reached them.

As Daenerys tended to Rhaegal, she saw Varys coming towards him. He maintained a cautious distance and a cautious eye at the dragon, speaking to her from afar. "Grey Worm must have reached Castle Goldgrass by now," he said. "More than a quarter of Jon Snow's army will be indisposed."

"That is good to know. Any news of the raven?"

"None." Varys' eyes saddened. "I find it noble that you are giving him a chance to recant, but northmen are stubborn by nature. They are too loyal to their ancestors to forget familial histories. Perhaps a show of the strength they are against, the thought that several houses great and small may face extinction will force them to kneel, as it did Torrhen Stark. But for now, it appears, battle plans must proceed as planned."

Sighs escaped her. Daenerys found the lines between mercy and ruthlessness difficult to navigate. She had given Snow the chance to come alone, unarmed and ready to parlay, but he instead came with fifteen thousand men, with every intention to lay sword against sword. Perhaps enough was enough. _You are not sheep. You are a dragon._ "So be it," she told Varys. She waved at Drogon to come nearer and see if he was ready to wrath on the northmen his fury.

**5\. The Eyrie**

The bow _thrummed_, but the arrow sailed past its target. Sansa Stark watched from afar as Petyr Baelish taught his foster child the art of archery but failed miserably. Brienne of Tarth stood with her, along with Ghost. Evidently, the direwolf seemed to have taken a similar promise to Brienne's.

"I don't want to practice archery." Robin Arryn had grown considerably taller from the last time Sansa had seen him. His black wavy hair still flopped on his shoulders, making him look like a handsome, just lord, when he was anything but.

"A good lord must be skilled in many facets," Baelish told him, but before he could start, Robin stormed away. Baelish turned instead to a young lord, deep in conversation, while Robin walked in their direction. Upon seeing Sansa, his face showed signs of recognition, but before he could redirect his outburst towards her, the growls of Ghost made him scurry.

Ghost alerted Baelish and his companion to their presence. Their conversation, which was reaching argumentative tones, halted abruptly. "Lady Sansa," said the stranger, walking towards them and bowing deeply, "I am Andar Royce, son of Lord Yohn Royce. I fear the tales do not do justice to your beauty."

Sansa gave her courtesies, and after some meaningless chatter on weather and war, Andar Royce departed, with shifty eyes at Ghost. Littlefinger's smile, which Sansa knew to be of pretense, disappeared the moment he did. "What was that about?" she asked him.

"I must not have left young Robin Arryn alone with them," he muttered. "Yohn Royce has never been a true ally to me, and now I worry he and his son attempt to seize power in the Vale. His son Andar has been getting close to Robin in my absence. He now insists the boy is old enough to rule, but I know why he says so. If my foster child is formally proclaimed, Andar will always have his ear."

"How will you get your power back?" Sansa asked.

Littlefinger seemed confused. "My name in the Vale is of no concern. I fear it will never be on high standing. What matters is Lysa's child. If Yohn or Andar Royce are to usurp power in the Eyrie, they will need Robin to suffer an irreparable accident. I cannot let that happen."

_Yes, I'm certain you cared about the health of Lysa's child before you so readily killed his mother._ Instead of attacking his credibility, however, Sansa knew that a general comment on his benevolence would provoke the appropriate response. "I have never seen this side of you," she said, with the tiniest of interrogative implications.

Baelish caught the connotation. "I am not a great man," he said. "As such, I must and will debase myself with guttural politics and schemes to not be bullied by greater lords or kings. For me, whose last name will never be Arryn, Stark or Targaryen, my legacy is my people. My world is the people I care about and I will kill for them, be they Robin, Catelyn, or," he said, eyes momentarily flashing in her direction, "anyone else that matters."

But Sansa was not listening to him, for her eyes had strayed to his weaker hand. Baelish had casually stowed it away from her sight inside his cloak, but when the wind blew, she saw for a second the heavy dressing on it. She pretended not to notice the blood it was soaked with, nor the tiniest of winces Baelish betrayed in his speech.

**6\. Barrowton**

_It's so cold._

White mist escaped her mouth as Daenerys Targaryen surveyed the scene from above. She desperately wanted to repose in the cabins of her ship, away from cold snow lashing at her face, despite being covered from head to toe. But when she looked down, seeing men of Vaes Dothrak and the Reach in battle formations at the foot of the hill, ready to fight and die for her, how could she abandon them?

Her vision was impaired by white snows, but despite the howling of the winds, she could hear chants of battle from Barrow Hall. _It does not seem like they want to surrender._ For further clarity, she flew closer to Barrow Hall, and this time saw clearly men with arrows on the rooftops. They shot them in her direction, but they flew hopelessly short of their target. There was no sign of white flags. _That settles it._

Daenerys whispered to her child. "_Dracarys_."

Drogon screeched fire in the air – the signal for Dothraki and Highgarden men to charge. Momentarily, Drogon's screech filled the setting with lights, and Daenerys glimpsed hundreds of men on the rooftops, with faces of shock and horror. _Hundreds of innocent men who will die for your pride, unless you surrender._

Screams and shouts made Dany look below. The Dothraki had made their way up the hill much quicker than the others, but fell like flies before they reached the castle. Without armor and clear vision, arrows flung at them from blackness, piercing eyes and hearts without warning. When they reached the gates rocks fell from above, crunching heads.

Highgarden men reached later, their armor shielding them from arrows. There was a swarm of men in front of Barrow Hall, too many for the northmen to target. They were helpless to stop her men tearing down the gates and make for the front doors.

Daenerys looked at the rooftops again for signs of surrender, but only saw northmen raining arrows and stone. Enough was enough – she had shown Jon Snow the might of her army, the hopelessness of his quest. _I will not lose any more men to this farce._ She steered Drogon closer to Barrow Hall. "It is time to end this," she told herself, before she gave the command.

**7\. Barrow Hall**

Chaos reigned within the walls as men prepared for death.

Jon Snow fought with his men at the doors, desperate to prevent the inevitable. Longclaw was stronger than their weapons. Whenever Jon parried, he heard their steel crack, while his held true. Valyrian steel buried into hearts, stomachs and throats, but the men streaming through the iron doors were all too many.

Men beside him fought with heart. _The King in the North!_, they yelled, before arakhs or swords sliced them apart. An advantage they held was the narrowness of entering the hall, but it was failing fast, as Dothraki and southerners kept invading the thresholds, with no sign of lessening. When they would infiltrate the interiors, the battle would be lost. _Why did I drag my men into a massacre?_

The castle rumbled violently as, for a moment, the night sky danced in flames of red and white. People were screaming all around him, but nothing was more unnatural than the screech of dragons. Arrows and stones that once fell from above stopped completely. _They're all dead._

Then Jon remembered. _Davos._

He hurtled to the top, bloody Longclaw in hand. As he raced through stairs, Jon saw fallen men near windows, arrows through their skulls or throats. People dead or dying, yet none of them wailing or lamenting their predicaments.

Some of them saw Snow heading up the stairs. "Where are you going?" they were all shouting in panic. "There is a dragon up there! They are all dead! She's on a dragon, burning everyone! It's not safe!" He ignored them all, continuing his ascent to the top, as the urgency of warnings increased.

Jon reached the top to thick smoke and the screams of burned men. He could not move two steps before stumbling on charred corpses, all of them unrecognizable. Below, the yells of fellow northmen persisted, urging him to come below while he yet could, but Jon's eyes could not leave his fallen friends. It could have been the smoke that made his eyes smart, or the overcoming sense of emotion that made the tears roll down his cheeks.

Dancing fires besides made him visible for those below. The ring of steel on steel had lessened. Jon saw below to gather why, and saw the eyes of Daenerys Targaryen's soldiers staring back at him. He heard the screech of the dragon somewhere in the skies. He looked up to see the winged creature zooming towards him.

_They are waiting to see me die._

Jon's heart filled with fear. He turned to take cover, but his leg tangled among something and he fell. The culprit was a spear.

_That's it._

Jon grabbed the spear in his hand and instead of fleeing, sprinted closer to the edge of the rooftop. Salty eyes hindered his vision slightly, but he could make out the flying creature in the black sky, and the queen riding him.

The dragon was as close as it could be, fiery eyes boring into him. But Jon was resolute. He gripped the spear tighter. _One throw to change the course of this war._ He begged the old gods to summon him all the strength and fortune in the world before he flung the spear, with all his might, in the direction of the dragon's eye.

It missed him by miles.

He heard the shouts of celebration before the dragon's mouth opened and flames engulfed him. All he saw was smoke and fire.

When the snows eventually extinguished him, Jon Snow was naked, clothes set afire, but immune to its heat. His eye caught Daenerys Targaryen's startled face. Below, soldiers had stopped dueling, unsure what to do next.


	9. Season 7 Episode 9

**1\. Barrow Hall**

Barbery Dustin's home had scarce seen so many visitors. Glovers, Manderlys and Mormonts broke bread silently, mourning losses in their minds. Few men of the Vale dined ravenously after a grueling journey and tiring battle. Those trapped on the western keep of Goldgrass had stayed there – all of them unhurt, yet confused when Jon Snow had ordered them to receive the Unsullied in their keep, and when Daenerys Targaryen told her men to lay down their spears.

Then there were the Dothraki, the Tyrells and the Unsullied. Barrow Hall did not have space enough for both Jon and Dany's men, which meant a few northerners had to withstand the cold outside. Jon saw Dothraki men jape amongst themselves as if the battle that just passed was sport. He heard outside the screeches of dragons as they feasted on corpses. _I could never have defeated her_, he thought, looking across the hall at the Dragon Queen. If Jon had doubted his choice, he did not anymore.

While the men he sent to Goldgrass were unharmed, Barrow Hall barely stood. He had ten thousand strong garrisoned before the start of the battle; now there were barely two. Daenerys' army were mere minutes away from storming through front doors of the castle and slaying every last man inside. _All that scheming, all that strategy and it only took one breath of a beast for hundreds to turn to ash._

Jon's eyes strayed towards his northmen in guilt. Those who were alive and healthy enough to partake in the feast were sullen, minds still on the battle. Cley Cerwyn had lost his hand to an _arakh_, and it was doubtful that he would live. Some claimed to have seen Robett Glover burn alive by the Dragon Queen. Jon had finally found Davos – half his body was charred by the dragon, but according to the maesters, the other half had refused to die.

When Jon recalled Arya's dead eyes the past night, part of him wanted to clench Longclaw and charge at his foes again. All it took him not to, was the knowledge that they had suffered as much as he had. Tyrion Lannister was killed, as was the Tyrell ally, and Theon slain by his own hand. War found no winners. Perhaps, Jon realized, with regret, he ought to have heeded Theon's advice.

Some of Jon's men stole glances at him, but none of their eyes showed the remotest inkling of hate. _They would never blame their king for dragging them into this massacre,_ Jon mused gloomily, _not when they think of me as their god._

He knew what they were thinking, but he had no more answers than they did. However closely he looked at his arms, no burn marks caught his eye, yet he was sure he was once afire. Jon was covered in blankets, yet he felt just as cold as he did on the rooftop of Barrow Hall. When the flames had fallen but he had not, he recalled the look Daenerys gave him. That, coupled with her equal readiness for a truce suggested she might know something.

The Dragon Queen approached him now. Jon thought she looked quite comely, but if her countenance expressed care or indifference, anger or pity, hatred or lust, he would not have known it – she hid her emotions well. Accompanying her was who could only have been the eunuch Sansa spoke of.

"Are you all right?" she said, by means of introduction. "Do you still feel the fire?"

"I never did." Jon could not keep the disbelief nor the curiosity from his voice. "How?" Between them, Jon felt, was fast developing a form of mutual apology. They were at odds on the battlefield not hours ago, yet this unexplained miracle of sorts transcended the animosity between them.

This time it was Varys the Spider who spoke, with a sense of imposing urgency. "Pardon my language, but you have been called the bastard son of the deceased Lord Eddard Stark. Have you any reason to dispute the claim?"

Jon was confused. The question seemed odd, and Varys' tones deeply distrustful. His contemplations over answering his question may have been apparent to Daenerys, for she spoke in words gentler. "It is not a question you must answer, but it may help us in our quest for truth. If there is any doubt to your parentage, that may change a lot. Could you tell us if you know for certain the identity of your mother, perhaps?"

Jon thought about Lord Eddard's cagey nature when it came to the identity of his mother. He remembered his cryptic words when Jon had asked him if she was still alive. _The next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother,_ he had said. That time never passed.

"I have no idea who she is."

Varys looked at Daenerys enquiringly, as if waiting for confirmation. Upon her nod, he spoke. "Birds whisper to me from the Wall to the Arbor. In my line of, ah, _business,_ one must learn to separate strange tales from downright unreal. Even my guesses are, thus, marred with authenticity. But before I speculate, we must know: do you plan to vie for the Iron Throne?"

Jon's response was swift. "Not in the least."

**2\. The Eyrie**

The wait for the raven from Barrowton was the longest of her life, yet Sansa Stark refused to hold in her hands needle or cloth to pass the time. Sewing seemed a lifetime away, a time of the past, perfect in its innocence. But innocence had disappeared under forgetful snow, like the flakes melting on the white, modest plaque that once read Podrick Payne's name.

Sansa found herself visiting his place of rest often, with Brienne and Ghost silent spirits behind. The winds were a lute playing jarring tones in her ears, making them hurt, but she felt the pain was appropriate penance for the dead. _Father, Mother, Robb, Rickon, Arya… why must good people forever perish?_

She nearly abandoned her lady's curtsy when the sniveling Andar Royce approached her over and over, hoping to curry favor from the Lady of Winterfell. _How do duplicitous men like him live, but people like Podrick do not?_ Whatever people may say, for Sansa, to think there was simple good and simple bad was an easier way of recognizing this world. Villains must be painted in black and punished, no matter what drove them. _Cersei, Joffrey, Daenerys…_

Staring at black skies and wondering when the raven would arrive was all she could do in the interim. Jon's last message stated he had reached Barrow Hall and that Daenerys was near. _Has war happened? Did Jon fall?_ Sansa hated staying at the Vale, the waiting, the not knowing.

She wanted to go home. She wanted to be inside thick, cold walls of Winterfell again, forget about winter and White Walkers. She wanted to see Bran, she wanted to see Jon and she wanted to play with Ghost, pretending him to be Lady.

The sudden growl of the direwolf behind made Sansa's nerves tense. She turned, and saw Brienne unsheathe her sword, taking Ghost's noises as a warning sign. Soon, soft footsteps on snow approached, but the trio could hardly see few feet in front of them. "Who goes there?" Sansa ventured.

"Sansa!" The footsteps drew nearer. Petyr Baelish stood in front of them, parchment in hand. He looked grave.

"I'm afraid we must leave, right away."

**3\. Barrowton**

Jon Snow seemed forever brooding. He scarce spoke to the victims he visited, in apparent contemplation of his influence on their predicaments. He stared at raging skies sullenly while his hands unconsciously cleansed his sword. And he responded with cold black eyes when Varys explained his surviving the flames by, potentially, being a bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.

Daenerys Targaryen could not tell if it was his habitual appearance or if he was lost in thought. It was easy to assume that a man of few words could seem possessed to commoners, but she preferred the simpler adjective: shocked.

They were in the town now: the Winterfell king had insisted people be told about the conclusion of the battle. They toured Barrowton together, yet with their own envoys: Jon, with some soldiers and a fat lord, while Daenerys with Qhono and few of her Dothraki. It was more a show of peace to the northerners, to keep their fragile alliance intact.

She remembered her words with Varys about Jon, and how the northerners held him in high regard, but little did she expect this. His words were all that it took for Barrowton to treat Daenerys from foe to friend. Northmen flocked around him like lamb to their shepherd. Perhaps it was because they had seen a miracle with their own eyes – Drogon had burned right through Jon, yet to see him standing at the end of it…

When the flames were out, Daenerys recalled, she saw for a second the marks on his chest and abdomen. They were unmistakable. Varys had claimed half of Jon's tales inflated and the other false, but what if he had the wrong of it? Could a man really rise from the dead?

_He is to the north what I was once to Yunkai,_ she thought, recalling those chants of _Mhysa_, which now felt seven lifetimes ago.

Hail and snow were relentless in their march, and the cold had seeped past her clothing swiftly, yet Jon seemed forgetful to the clime, alone in his thoughts, alienated from immediate society. Daenerys felt pity for her khalasar, too proud to ask her for shelter, yet who could risk frostbite wearing the attire they did. "Would you like to visit the dragons?" she asked Jon, wondering if that was where his mind lay.

Roofs of stables needed to be removed to accommodate Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion. Dothraki and northerners took shelter in adjoining stables, while Jon approached her children, Daenerys not far behind. He had kept a safe distance. "If I have Targaryen blood," he said, finally approaching the subject, be it tangentially, "does that mean they will be friendlier?"

"I do not know." Daenerys was interested. "The only other Targaryen I really knew was my brother."

Jon boldly went nearer to Drogon, reaching his hand as if wanting to touch him. The dragon, instead of bowing down, flared his nostrils and snapped teeth in his direction. For a second, it looked like he would much love to devour the King in the North, but before it could consider so, Jon hurriedly backed away. "Clearly, it has not forgotten our encounter at the rooftop of Barrow Hall," he said, rare grin on his face.

"Do they frighten you?" Daenerys said, half-laughing. "They can even frighten me sometimes."

"I thought I would be all right," he said, sheepish. "After the things I've seen…" he hesitated. "I mean, I have seen some direwolves," he finished somewhat meekly, and then spoke about his pet. Daenerys made light chat with him, and Jon seemed to try his best to engage in meandering conversations, but she knew they were wasting time, avoiding the something simmering underneath the surface.

Eventually, she came right out to say it. "Perhaps it is time to move to more serious matters. The secret of your… lineage, will forever lie between you, me and Varys. But how does that not make you want the Iron Throne?"

Jon seemed taken aback by her sudden line of questioning. "I do not have any interest for King's Landing. When my father… when Lord Eddard went there, he was labelled a traitor and executed." His voice grew bitter. "My brother was killed for waging war against it, and my sister scarce survived the place. There is more tragedy in the capital than glory." He paused. "But why do you ask?"

It was Daenerys' time to act confused. "Well… I just felt we needed to address the important issue."

Jon nodded, sullenness back, and in that second Daenerys realized her error in judgment. _He is no politician, that is for certain,_ she thought, as she understood that the engagement that Jon was showing in their previous ramblings was genuine. Prolonged company with Hizdahr zo Loraq, Tyrion Lannister and Varys made her forget that, among lords and kings, there could still exist men with sheer sincerity.

**4\. Oldstones**

Anger well gave way to fatigue by the time Jaime Lannister was at the foot of the hill, on which stood the ruins of a castle no man or maester knew the true name of but simply called Oldstones. This was the point when Euron Greyjoy and his forces were to part ways with the infantry by ship, and in all honesty, Jaime was glad to be shorn of his society.

Lannister and Greyjoy forces had reached a long way. From Highgarden, Jaime had chartered the safest course – they had marched past Lannisport, from where they rode through Whispering Wood and continued their way north. Snows were falling for days, but the forests had at least spared them from the winds.

Jaime rode with eighty-thousand strong men. He supposed the journey and the brief but inevitable skirmish with Edmure Tully at the Twins would cause some casualties on his side, but not nearly enough for Jon Snow to dismiss him as a threat. Weeds here were thicker than trees, reaching Jaime's chest as he made his way up the hill with the Lannister army. If their maester was to be believed, a night or two of rest in the abandoned castle would be enough for the speed of snows to lessen.

The journey from Highgarden to Oldstones was laborious, but made a million times tenser owing to Euron keeping him on knife-edges. If the Mad King were to spill his seed inside Cersei and from them came the Greyjoy, even they would stand aghast at how fickle-minded their cunt of a child was.

There were days when not a word escaped his lips spare absolute obedience. When Jaime ordered the Lannister forces to scout and march in certain ways, he grunted in brief assent and carried commands dutifully. On those same nights, even crickets feared to sing as the sound of his cackles rang through the forests. Once, when Jaime thought to barge into his pavilion and implore him to stay silent, he saw from outside blue and crimson lights dancing in his tent, and thought better of it. It would not be long before fishmongers would hear the sound and rename it The Cackling Woods.

The same people always rode close with him. In rare moments when he had to speak with Euron, Jaime saw him muttering away with people who could not have been Westerosi. Some looked up to Euron, some spoke with him gruffly, and all called him the Crow's Eye. If one was bald, another would have hair reaching his thighs, and if one spoke the Common Tongue in thickly laced accents, another stood in a silence more total than Ilyn Payne's.

"They are men I met in my exile," Euron had told him once. He was having one of his crazier days – the fire in his eyes and rasp in his voice were distinctly noticeable. "Sometimes I wonder if my banishment was punishment or reward. I've seen the most desperate of passions, visited islands Oldtown thought to be the tales of wet nurses, traded secrets with wizards." He cackled into the dark sky. "Spare the ironborn, you Westerosi are too cultured for my taste. At times, I find myself thinking if the Iron Throne is a waste of my time. But then the next battle comes along, and I see in the eyes of men again the rawest of passions, before I steal from them their lives." He licked his lips, which left on them a blue stain.

_Father's mad beast was Gregor Clegane as much as Cersei's beast is him. But my sweet, sweet sister is in for a rude awakening if she believes she can chain the Crow's Eye to a leash._

**5\. Barrow Hall**

Daenerys Targaryen paid attention to her own men as well as Jon's. They had all introduced themselves before the long chat. _Wyman Manderly, Brandon Tallhart, Barbrey Dustin,_ in her mind she recited. The half-burned man in bed, yet insistent he was of perfect health, Ser Davos Seaworth, completed the northern side of the dialogue. With Daenerys was Varys, Missandei, Grey Worm (having returned from Goldgrass), Qhono and Paxter Redwyne.

Words had a way of being a war, Daenerys noticed, and were it not for Varys, she would certainly have lost this one. There were a lot of narrow, twisting topics to confront, from the deaths of Tyrion and Arya Stark to the Battle at Barrowton, and he expertly kept the peace during such discussions. Daenerys had lost thirty-thousand men, most of them Dothraki, but Jon had been shorn of men too, Robett Glover being incinerated and Cley Cerwyn succumbing to his wounds.

It was during this parlay that she learned of Theon's beheading. Daenerys had no opinion of the man, but he was a part of her Council, and her initial inclination was to seek punishment. But then she looked at Davos, charred and close to death, and thought it best to let the treaty stand. None of them, at the end of their discussion, looked furious enough to break the truce. Striking an alliance must not be difficult.

"I am sorry that so many lives had to be shed before an agreement was reached," she said, "but now that differences are settled, and that we know you are not interested in the Iron Throne, perhaps it is time to unite against the common evil. If there is nothing more to discuss-"

"There is."

Jon's interruption had such a savage undercurrent to it that Daenerys wondered if he considered breaking the peace. "Speak," she said, attempting to show her own steel in a word.

What followed seemed like one of the most ludicrous speeches she had heard. Daenerys listened with the straightest face imaginable as she heard Jon talk about dead men walking and an army of ice monsters beyond the Wall. As his ramblings continued, Daenerys looked to the other northmen, but none of them flinched. _If he is japing, why is no one else laughing?_ Despite Jon's reiterations that what he said may sound unbelievable, his tales did little to convince Daenerys that they were in any way close to reason. _Did I misjudge him after all?_

His monologue ended. He looked at her, waiting for her to speak, but she had no words.

"So," she began, trying to get the facts in her head straight, "there are over a hundred thousand walking corpses in the Lands of Always Winter, there are White Walkers who can turn dead bodies into their followers by touching them, and in any time from now, all of them will try to breach the Wall?"

"Yes."

"They are impossible to kill, save by fire or dragonglass?"

"Yes." Forget flinching, now all the northmen were looking at Daenerys in sheer urgency, as if trying to make her believe them by sight alone. She tried to review the situation, to wonder if Jon was trying to manipulate her, but none of them seemed to fit. _One man may have lost his wits,_ she thought, looking at Jon, _but surely not the entire north?_

"Your Grace," said Jon Snow, "you have only known me for the length of a day, but in your first impressions, do you think I am a liar, a madman?"

She thought of flames touching her skin, but her never feeling it, the day the night was alive with the music of dragons. She thought of rumors surrounding his resurrections, and the marks Jon's abdomen bore. She thought of magic and _maegis_. She thought of Jon's ignorance of politics and diplomacy, and the Stark's repute for honesty. And she did not know what came over her, especially in the wake of what he had just said, but instead of a simple negation, her words were, "I think you may be one of the most honest men in Westeros."

Jon seemed taken aback by her strong words, but he gathered himself soon. "Then help me defeat them," he said. "With three dragons, you can fly beyond the Wall and kill all of them. They will be powerless to stop you. Do the realm this service, and I will bend to you the knee and give you all the men you need to rid the world of Cersei Lannister."

Daenerys was yet uncertain. She decided to voice that. "You can understand my reluctance to trust you."

Ser Davos, silent all this time, finally spoke. "I understand, Your Grace. Ice monsters and walking corpses? It sounds like nonsense. Sometimes, I wish it were nonsense. But the world is what it is, and it is up to us to fix it. You are skeptical? Fine. If you go beyond and find no one, your dragons are free to burn me to death."

The readiness with which Davos offered himself as lamb for slaughter was slightly curtailed by how close to death he already was. Yet, she found it staggering how formidable a loyalty the King in the North held. Daenerys decided to test his resolve. "Do not think I will not, Ser Davos."

"Go ahead," he said, relentless. He paused, taking stock of his cavalier approach, and opted for a more measured one. "My apologies for my candor, Your Grace, but I am afraid I must do everything I can to make you believe. For if we do not put aside our enmities and band together, we will die. And then, it will not matter whose skeleton sits on the Iron Throne."

**6\. The Northlands**

Bran saw him drown, saw waters around him forbidding any space for breathing. Alone, lost in a sea of death, not knowing which way was up, the man gushed wind through his nose and followed the bubbles. As he reached closer to the light, waiting for him in the sky was fear itself. Fire erupted through its face, dancing in his direction. It was cold, then it was hot, and then too hot.

The dungeons stank of the dead. He saw the bearded man pacing his cell. "I will not beg," he was saying. Rats scurried through the bars of his cell in ways that stirred in him envy. He grabbed one in his hand. The rodent desperately bit his fingers before his hands tore him to shreds. The sight made Bran yell, but no one heard him.

Fever had failed to escape him. It was easy to see, but impossible to move. _Someone, move me,_ he wanted to say. _If you shake me hard enough, perhaps I will be alive again._ Dark brown eyes stared through him. "Ice dragons are not real," Meera Reed was telling him. "Maybe you saw the past. Was the Wall still standing?"

The dungeons were back again, only it felt slightly different. It was darker here, and the voices of rats absent. He saw a man chewing white hair, muttering to himself. "They must come to save me. They must."

He was back in the cave with the Three-Eyed Raven. The old man looked at him, and this time, Bran was certain the eyes saw. "You have power beyond your bounds," he said. "Mayhaps it is time to increase them." But he could not. For him, time was but a space through which he traversed.

**7\. Barrow Hall**

If he could not trust his own intellect, how was his role any less redundant as the dead Tyrion Lannister's?

The Spider's webs spread from the frigid Wall to the shores of the Arbor, from Pyke to the Shadow Lands of Asshai. For years the tendrils grew until they snaked upon the feet of every lord, lady and their children. He honed them with great care, thriving the treacherous climb with dreams of achieving the omniscience of gods by mortal means alone. And when he thought he had, the tragic flaw revealed itself, _him._

Whispering in the ears of those he served, be they savage men like Mad King Aerys or just like Queen Daenerys, Varys was careful to not tell them all, for absolute information was more a bane than gift. Magic was often sacrificed, for he was not an unbeliever of it as much as a despiser. Varys cast away tales of fire gods, sorcerers, prophets and armies of the dead the moment he heard of them. But when the queen confided in Varys the marks bearing Jon's abdomen, mayhaps he ought to have told her what he had heard, when he had heard of it.

The Dragon Council had yet to reach consensus on Jon's conditions. Paxter Redwyne refrained superstitions of the Night's Watch, calling the northern king "as distrustful as his outlaw friends". Missandei was of the opinion that there would be little harm in flying beyond the Wall, assuming the queen and her dragons would not find the weather overwhelming. Grey Worm and Qhono were silent, the former waiting to receive orders from his queen, while the latter surveyed the conversation in an odd manner of disdain.

"What do you think, Varys?"

He decided, this time, to recall discarded rumors and put them to practice. "Much the same as you, my Queen. I do not think Jon Snow is a liar. There have been a lot of whispers from men north of Winterfell about the army of the dead. As soon as he was made King in the North, he sent wildlings to man Castle Black. It means, at the very least, that many believe in a greater threat beyond the Wall, be their claims true or not. If gaining the alliance of nearly half of Westeros means flying to the Lands of Always Winter and, possibly, burning dead men who stand no chance against you, so be it."

When the council disbanded, Varys lingered behind for a private audience. He knew he needed to choose his words carefully. "My queen," he began, emphasizing who had the power to make the final decision, "people are not beholden to their lineages or their ancestry. But the loyalty for Jon Snow in the north is so ferocious that one may assume it to be earned by some merit. And if our guesses are true, he is part Targaryen."

Daenerys was unmoved. "We know all this. What else do you have in mind?"

"Winning the throne is easy, but keeping it will be the harder task. In the wake of the Battle at Barrowton, it is essential we strengthen this alliance. It is not uncommon for Targaryens of the same lineage-"

"Are you suggesting, Lord Varys," she interrupted, "that Jon Snow and I draw up plans for marriage?"

Varys best choose his words carefully. "There is no greater hope for Westeros than you," he said. "But for the people to give you a chance, they must be wooed enough by their monarch. For political purposes, a Targaryen restoration, in which the queen pets three dragons, and the king cheats death, is certainly enough allure."

He knew not if his words to Daenerys felt logical or delusional. When she finally spoke, her voice was measured. "It is too soon to explore this idea, Lord Varys."

**8\. King's Landing**

The battle must have ended by now, but she still did not know the victor. _It has to be the Stark bastard who fell._

If the Targaryen bitch emerged victorious from the battle, she would lock the Riverlands and make life harder for her to pass. If the Starks won, she would siege Winterfell before their return. _Four kingdoms on my side already. The tide is turning, and the spoils are coming my way. Even Father could not achieve what I have._

Despite her impatience, Cersei felt pleased with herself. No one in the Seven Kingdoms would have given her a chance at winning this war, but she had done well for herself. Quelled the riots at the capital, allied with Euron Greyjoy, sacked Highgarden, and soon the Tullys would fall.

Thoughts of war stirred her blood, and Cersei felt in the mood for fucking, but Jaime was not around. Recalling her brother made the arousal die down, however. _The coward._ She hoped he had now learned his lesson.

Bronn entered her chambers at her request. She considered making do with him, then decided against it. It was time to be queen. "Ser Bronn," she said, "how do things fare with the local rebels?"

"They hide in the shadows. If I knew them, I doubt they would tell me." He grinned, pleased with his own japes.

Cersei would need to be more direct with the man. "Perhaps you will find some in Flea Bottom. That is where Qyburn believes the last of them remain. Go find them, discreetly, and chop off the remaining heads."

"What better way is there to crush rebellion?" he said, grinning. It was only after Bronn left the room did it occur to Cersei that he may have been snide.

**9\. Barrowton**

_Jon Snow. Or is it Jon Sand?_

Throughout his life, he was taught that he was lowborn, that the best privilege he would have was as the pretend son of Eddard Stark, the pretend brother of Robb, Sansa or Arya. He yet may be. But being the son of Lyanna Stark had to be better than of a tavern wench.

He had been scorned, stabbed, burned. At Hardhome, he was one swing of the sword away from being killed. Time and time again lived to tell the tale. Stannis Baratheon had offered to name him a Stark. Melisandre thought he was a promised prince. Were his escapades coincidental, or were they prophetic? If he was a chosen one, surely, he was not meant to die today? He had sent ravens to Sansa, telling her about the climax of the battle and of the possible Targaryen lineage, hoping for a response, and none came yet.

_If I am a Targaryen, can I lay claim to a dragon?_ It was thoroughly unlikely, since Daenerys was with the beasts all her life, and frequently called them her children. Besides, the largest one, Drogon, seemed to have a particular hatred for him.

His thoughts strayed to Daenerys. How did a Targaryen, relatively unnoticed, build an army, hone three dragons and pick the best advisors from King's Landing to her aid?

Whatever her intentions, Jon was thankful she was equally enthused for peace. After his declarations of war, she could have torn the north from limb to limb, killed him and shown the people he was no god, but she did not. Jon remembered the flutter in his stomach when she called him 'one of the most honest men in Westeros.'

_No. There is no time for that._

The winds suddenly grew colder, more concentrated, raining in his direction. A split second later, he saw the shadow form on the snow, and knew the cause. Jon looked up to see the dragon staring down at him as it landed beside. Its yellow-orange colored wings closed upon itself, as his eyes bore into Jon's. It snarled, advancing.

Jon thought to flee, but only for a second. An air of invincibility had enveloped him, the feeling that he was not to die today. It may not be long before he, or his people, would have to face a hundred thousand creatures of the army of the dead. Surely, he had to be brave enough to stand in front of a dragon. Thankfully, he noticed, as the snarls lessened, this one was not Drogon. It seemed slightly smaller, with green and bronze-colored scales instead.

_I must be mad,_ Jon thought, as he fumbled with his gloves, finally removing the left one. His hand reached forward slowly, attempting to touch it. By all accounts, he could not be stabbed or burned, but surely, if the dragon decided to chomp away his hand, the gods would not bend the rules further?

For a second, the dragon showed him his teeth. Then it closed.

As Jon petted the scales of a beast five times larger than him, wondering if this was another coincidence or prophecy, a voice sounded behind him. "You are quite an extraordinary man, Jon Snow."

Jon recognized the voice before he turned around to see her. He wondered if Daenerys Targaryen was angry that he breached unsaid boundaries between her and her dragons, but when the snows cleared, it looked like she was grinning. _First honest, now extraordinary._ Even the smallest of seeds as such were sprouting wild branches in his mind. _No,_ the voice reminded him. _There is no time for that._


	10. Season 7 Episode 10 - Season Finale

**1\. Barrowton**

Time healed a great many things. People who grieved deaths of their beloved, now let past enemies be past. Those wounded and charred, once thought not to survive, began relearning how to walk without wincing. Workmen tried to rebuild tattered towers in ferocious snow. Swords were sheathed, shields polished, and men of Manderly drank deep with those of the Reach. Forced enclosure with Stark and Targaryen strengthened peace rather than shattered it.

While snow trapped them inside, Jon had the time to meet fellow northmen. Davos was still recovering, but Maester Avery had said the danger for death had passed. With Davos indisposed, Jon planned for the future alone. They had left from Winterfell with fifteen-thousand strong, but now had seven. Daenerys Targaryen had yet not replied to his proposal of sending dragons beyond the Wall to destroy the Night King's army. If she refused, or did not believe him, Jon would have to lead seven thousand northmen to defend the Wall from a hundred thousand.

He wondered what kept Daenerys from making her decision. They had been spending a lot of time together, perhaps since he was one of few people not afraid of her dragons anymore. The green-and-bronze scaled one had even taken a liking to him, and Jon often petted him while speaking with Daenerys. _Rhaegal. It had to be him._

Formal discussions among monarchs inevitably went deeper. Before he knew it, Jon was telling her about his defense of Castle Black against Mance Rayder, while she recounted her liberation of Slavers Bay. Each passing conversation made his decision to wage war against her seem more foolish. _Not only did she command the greater force, she is actually worthy of the Iron Throne._

The wild branches in his mind had not stopped growing, but experience had made him wiser. He recalled the time he was entrenched between Ygritte and his oaths to the black. _Love is the death of duty,_ rang in him Maester Aemon's voice. As of now, his duty was to be king, fight the Walkers and save men from becoming monsters.

**2\. King's Landing**

The streets stank like a sewer, but all Bronn smelled was opportunity. Flea Bottom bumped against him, becoming narrower the deeper he went. On other days, his gold armor was enough for commoners to give him a wide berth, but Bronn was meant to be inconspicuous today. He wore patched brown clothing, kept his head down and passed the lanes Qyburn told him to, with one finger on his dagger.

Qyburn had given him names, as if the twat thought Bronn's idea would include roaming around asking blacksmiths where so-and-so stayed. He kept faith in his eyes, and they did not fail him – he saw a pair of grey garbs enter a filthy building of stone, and on the upper floor, spotted through the window, couple more laughing loudly. Most of the building had on its walls sketched pictures of Queen Margaery Tyrell.

Bronn bumped against what seemed to be a thousand men before reaching the threshold of the building. He saw the rickety staircase ahead and, on the ground, roaches eating vomit. _Another day in paradise,_ he chuckled to himself, as he stepped on them on his way inside.

Bronn barely paced three steps when they were on him. Grey garbs emerged from behind, from ahead, from the sides, swarming him like flies on shit. Some carried swords, but they were rusty and too large for their size. Bronn grinned, and reached for his dagger, before he realized both had vanished.

**3\. Barrowton**

It had taken a long time, but skies finally showed them mercy. It was time for Daenerys to formally tell Jon what she had decided days ago.

"You're saying yes?"

"I am." Daenerys looked at Jon, his eyes full of elation and relief, diplomacy lost to the winds. _He really had no idea._ Based on what Varys had told her, she had concluded that reasonable enough doubt existed for White Walkers to exist, and there could be more harm in not investigating. In fact, her mind had been more or less made that very evening.

However, she needed to know how trustworthy, or otherwise, Jon Snow was. His honesty was to be admired and, as Varys had suggested to him, also profited from. While the poor man probably thought their idle chat was immune from polity, Daenerys was using them to get a first-hand measure of the king.

What Daenerys expected, she received over and above. She heard stories of him spying against and fighting a King-beyond-the-Wall, sheltering Stannis Baratheon's men yet refusing the name of Stark, defeating Ramsay Bolton when his sister pleaded him to and being crowned King in the North despite not asking for it, tales all confirmed by Varys.

The question that kept occurring to her since the death of Tyrion, one she stowed away, may have found an answer. But, for the time being, she focused on the matter at hand. "On one condition," she told Jon, replacing his jubilations with speculations.

"I have already agreed to bend the knee," he told her warily. "What else do you wish of me?"

Daenerys said it. "You will fly with me."

She caught the shock in his eye, and gave him reasons to quell it. "I am leading my children to the coldest area of the country, in search of things I thought to be myths a few moons ago," she said. "I cannot separate Thenn lands from the Fist. I need to be with someone who knows the terrain, who knows where the Walkers were last. I do not ask you to mount Rhaegal or Viserion. You will sit with me and Drogon."

Daenerys had planned to break this bittersweet news to Jon as soon as the weather cleared. She knew that he would tense under the possibility of heavy snows falling again, which meant the decision needed to be made immediately. The shock never subsided from his eyes, but it was of no surprise to her when Jon gave his assent.

With skies clearer, Jon told his men to advance to the Wall now, while she told Qhono, Grey Worm and Paxter Redwyne to prepare to march when she flew, so that when she returned, they could make haste on King's Landing.

Since Jon was, understandably, apprehensive to mount the dragon, Daenerys did it first. As he nervously followed and positioned himself behind her, Daenerys felt relief that Drogon did not dislike him anymore. "Hold on to, something," she said, before whispering the command to Drogon.

As the dragon slowly lifted in the air, so did Rhaegal and Viserion, and Daenerys Targaryen heard the gasps of Jon as he, with hands firm yet shaking, held on to her like his life depended on it. _For it did._

**4\. King's Landing**

"They were going to mutilate it, but we managed to bring it back."

Fragrances fled the Great Hall when Bronn's naked body was brought inside. It was covered with blood and shit, head mangled beyond recognition and on the bloodied parts a feast for flies. Cersei found herself not cringing as much as she thought she would. Anger had made her mind oddly clear.

She had done well to make this a private audience. If there was any commoner in the Great Hall, their presence alone would have made her want to burn them alive. The war against Daenerys Targaryen was faring better than against the commonfolk, but surely, now it was time to end it. After the formalities of court, Cersei beckoned an audience with Qyburn. "Any news at the Twins?" she asked him.

"Not yet, Your Grace," he said, "but I fear we may have to postpone the march to Winterfell. Ellaria Sand advances her troops from Dorne. We do not have enough men to guard the Red Keep."

_The fucking bitch._ Daenerys sending Ellaria's troops back to Dorne was a move she did not expect. She had hoped to take Winterfell sooner, but would now have to retreat. Before Cersei relayed the command to Qyburn, she noticed an odd expression playing on his face. His eyes were more alive than ever, as if waiting in anticipation.

"Send the necessary ravens to Euron," she told him. "And as for the problem with the people of King's Landing-"

Qyburn interrupted her, as if reading her thoughts. "Shall I call Hallyne the Pyromancer?"

_There it is again._ The glint was certainly stronger now, impatiently waiting for her response. Qyburn wanted her to respond to the Righteous Saviors with wildfire, and so did she, but his impatience was now making her uneasy. _What does he have to gain?_ Cersei was certain that Qyburn was not spying on her. His mind was too invested in experiments with corpses and dragon skulls, and she gave him plenty of samples to satiate his curiosity.

_Is that it?_

All this time, Cersei Lannister was trying to stop the rebellions by fighting fire with fire, but none of them had succeeded. Casualties were increasing on both sides, but she seemed to be emerging dominant, even by Qyburn's own admission. Was that a lie? _At the end of it all, does he wish for nothing more than more bloodshed for more samples?_

She recalled her imprisonment by the High Sparrow, and her promise of vengeance on those who wronged her. But effecting revenge was making her new enemies, and fighting them never seemed to end. Suppressing the commoners was no answer to solving the conflict. She needed to be smarter.

Cersei Lannister watched Qyburn's eyes dim as she ordered him to do the opposite.

**5\. The Twins**

Salt, sea, and the sight of war all made his blood run quick with anticipation.

Euron Greyjoy licked blue lips as he saw fifteen Tully ships backed against the bridge, waiting for them. They had hoisted their flags, but none of them were white. Not that it mattered – he was too eager for signs of surrender to stop him from bathing in crimson blood.

The Tully king – Edward, was it? – had only five thousand puny men to his cause. Spies had told them that Edward planned to garrison a thousand men on the west tower and another thousand on the east. That should mean three thousand would be among the ships. _Three thousand men against my thousand-and-twenty? The bards would show grace if they call this a battle, and not a massacre._

Even though the fog prevented clear sight, the mass of Lannister men west of the Green Fork were easily noticeable. While the Crow's Eye would soak ships with blood, the plan was for Lord Prissy Goldenhand to ride with his sixty-thousand handsome men to conquer the western tower. The toddlers left in the eastern stronghold should surrender at the sight of the slaughter. _Mayhaps they will choose to fight instead,_ Euron thought, _but one must not get their hopes up._

Apart from soldiers and pirates, his fleet also had to accommodate food, ale, horses, spare banners, clothing, tents, and other things necessary for the future siege of Winterfell. It was important none of them sunk during the battle, Goldenhand insisted, so Euron stashed the cargo in ten ships instead of across forty. To keep them protected his fleet rode in a triangle, with the ten ships carrying the goods at the base of it. He added _another_ ten ships behind, to protect assaults from the rear.

Forty Greyjoy ships hurtled through the fog. Euron's _Silence_ was at the tip of the triangle. His crew of eight-hundred sang in drunken tones, holding swords and shields, dancing to war drums, ripe for battle. The only one not participating was Cragorn. "They have fifteen ships lined abreast," he said, looking through the fog. "It looks like they are staying close to the bridge behind them, to keep us from fucking them from the arse."

Euron cackled appreciatively. "It looks like the fish have decided to flop around and gasp for air." Cragorn had been with him during his years of exile the longest, and he knew what he was thinking. "We have fought some legendary battles, but this will not be one of those. Take as much fun from this carnage as you can."

Then suddenly, as if on some command, all fifteen Tully ships charged forward.

_Ah, trying to fool me, are we?_ A common counterattack to his triangular formation was to flank it from the sides, but for that to work the two forces forming the tip of Euron's triangle would have to separate from the two base fleets behind. That way, a gap would be formed in the triangle, large enough for Tully ships to swarm inside and breach their line of defense.

The Crow's Eye had enough experience to know that by staying true to his triangular formation, the Tullys would fail. He was also certain that, in order to tempt Euron to pierce through their fleet, the center of the Tully line would purposefully appear weak. If Euron were to take the bait, by rushing the tip of the triangle through the center, the gaps in his formation would give his enemy the advantage.

But when they saw through the fog, much to the shock of everyone aboard the _Silence_, the central three ships seemed jam-packed with crewmen.

Euron could not but feel a tinge of respect and appreciation for the Tullys. _They intend to face me head-on, no tactics, no japes._ This had to be the work of Edward, who he heard preferred open combat than intricate, almost diplomatic ways of war. If he intended to fight Euron like a warrior, so be it. "It seems," he muttered to Cragorn, "that your hopes for a bloody scrap may come true." Then, Euron spoke out loud. "Prepare the boarding bridges!"

As _Silence_ charged at full throttle to the center of the Tully line, through overwhelming fog, Euron heard to his west the clash of sword on steel, and knew the Lannisters had begun their dance as well.

**6\. Beyond the Wall**

Heavy clothing made him appear thrice his size, but when the winds whipped, Jon Snow felt them pierce through his skin like knives. Drogon had been as low as possible to avoid the unimaginable chill near the clouds, but when they had reached the Wall, the three dragons were forced to ascent much higher. He thought the winter would turn him into a block of ice which would slip to the ground and shatter. _Was it always this cold at Castle Black?_

In the initial moments of flight, Jon had cast all bravery shamelessly aside and clung to his rider with both arms. Daenerys replied to his fright with giggles. They temporarily settled Jon's heart, after which the dragon shook violently, and he remembered he was soaring through Westeros at the speed of sound.

He was more settled now, and that was well and good. Now was not the time for panic. He had to use his eyes and ears. Jon had already told Daenerys to head northeast, in the direction of Hardhome, and they were now over the vast expanse of the Haunted Forest. He kept eyes peeled through the thick trees, waiting to see a glimpse of blue, or gatherings of people.

When Jon Snow saw them, the piercing blue eyes were already gleaming in their direction.

His heart threatened to crack his ribs. What was below was so immensely staggering by sight alone that he, for a fleeting second, wondered if the dragons contemplated fleeing too. Anyone would think that the army of the dead was a forest and the trees its lone wanderers, not vice versa. There were… thousands. _Tens of thousands._ Men in skeletons and hanging skulls. Giants with eyes of brightest blue.

"There!" he screamed at Daenerys. She had seen them around the same time he did, but sheer terror had frozen her firmer than the Wall. Jon's yells goaded her into action. "Drakaris! Drakaris!" she shrieked in the night sky, and the beasts opened their mouths.

The second that followed was the longest of his life. Fire extinguished the paralyzing winter. The dragon underneath him vibrated so violently that Jon instinctively wrapped his hands around the queen. The forest was set ablaze. Millions of screeches rang among the wet woods, the sound of evil itself leaving the world. The yells of _Drakaris_ merged with the music of dragons. _Kill all of them, burn it all, please!_

Drogon swerved hurriedly as a spear missed him by inches. Jon saw the spear sail behind them, swallowed by the blackness of the clouds, in a state of perennial rise. As more flew past them, his eye caught the shape of ice lances twice the size of Longclaw. Gods, no.

Suddenly, the wights were not the only ones screeching in agony.

Viserion was flapping around the sky like a hapless bird. Torrents of his blood rained on the burning forest below. Where once was his eye now protruded a lance, both blue and crimson. Daenerys Targaryen's yells would have saddened the worst of demons.

As the ground rushed to meet the dragon, an eerie reminder of its mortality, Jon Snow, wits lost to the fire, tried to pull Drogon's scales towards the south, to direct them away from certain death. The dragon, who not many nights ago tried to roast him alive, readily obliged.

**7\. The Twins**

The Iron Fleet was of forty, of which _Iron Wind, Grey Ghost_ and Euron's _Silence_ formed the tip, packed with eight-hundred men each. It was these ships that, as opposing fleets were about to kiss, slammed their boarding planks on Tully decks.

Even though the fog prevented clear sight, it was apparent that the three central ships of Tully were packed with people as well, ripe for combat. Euron could have rammed them until they sunk, for his fleet was stronger, but the chance to fight the Blackfish in single combat was too tempting to spurn. "Charge!" he yelled at his men, as he sprinted across the boarding plank into white vapor.

Before Euron had stepped on the enemy's deck, he knew something was wrong. Leaving aside that the ship was weak, creaking noisily with every step he took, the quiet was absolute, and although he could see many silhouettes against the rim, none of them prepared in any way to defend themselves. As other men of _Silence_ boarded the ship, Euron charged at Tully men, sword in hand. But when he was near enough and saw rows of empty suits of armor instead, while at the same time hearing cries of confusion from crewmen of _Iron Wind_ and _Grey Ghost_, he realized the blunder he had made.

_Three Tully ships, full with dummies._

_The center _was_ weak._

In horror, Euron saw the remaining twelve Tully ships swarm into gaps, ramming against the vessels he left behind. In his haste to meet what he thought were three ships laden with Tully men, Euron realized he had wrecked the tightness of his formation, and fallen into the trap he foreseen.

Arrows of fire whistled from the twin towers and the bridge up north. A rock rained from above, crashing dead-center of the ship Euron and his men were on. The Tullys were intentionally sinking the weak ships he had just seized. _The cunt had planned this all along._

As the ship began its rapid descent into the ice-cold river, panic reigned among the crewmen. With hundreds of unbudgeable armors and stranded ironborn, space was hard to find. Men began killing their own. Euron, having been in chillier waters than the ones below him, dived from the ship into the blackness.

He swam past floating corpses, screaming drowning men and through thick, crimson liquid. Chants of victory, yells of agony and the tearing of flesh mingled with heavy mist. Fiery arrows rained from above, dousing themselves as they hit the river. A rock fell from the sky once every minute, sometimes hitting a ship, sometimes plummeting to the depths of the Green Fork. _They have a trebuchet,_ he thought, initial rage now turning into lust. The Tullys were not giving him a battle to forget, that was for certain.

Euron caught rope dangling alongside one of few ships still floating. The waters were warmer than he thought, but they were cold enough to impair his mobility, and he was desperate to escape them. As he hurriedly hoisted himself up the hull, realizing by touch that this was not of his fleet, he caught glimpses of the battle on the starboard. Blood spurted down on him.

When Euron finally made it to the top, he knew he was on the right one.

The ship was of Tully, but plenty of ironborn had boarded it. They were now laying steel against steel with the enemy, who were lesser in number but putting a brave fight. "For Edmure!" they yelled, as with vicious swiftness they tore through the Greyjoys. "You cunts looking to flee?" Euron yelled at his men. They turned, saw their lord alive, and rallied with equal fury.

Eventually, they burned a hole through the Tully resistance, and at the center of it, Euron finally saw him. He charged toward the man, shoving others by the wayside, but when the sword flashed in his direction, the parry was so swift he hardly saw it. Arms stinging, yet with eyes alive, Euron made with him visual contact. "Dance with me," he told the Blackfish.

Euron Greyjoy threw all his might behind every swing, parry and punch. The timber soaked red with blood. Rocks rained from the sky. Some fought with two swords, some with maces, and some flung hammers. Some jumped from ships, some were thrown. Arrows shot from nowhere, stabbing people through eye, gut and throat, but Euron's focus never wavered from his opponent. The Crow's Eye cackled in the smoky sky, while in the milieu, ships drowned in fire.

His sword caught the Blackfish's leg. Blood escaped it. The Blackfish stuttered, sword tumbling from his hands. Yelling in agony, he fell on one knee on the bloody deck. "I have you!" Euron yelled, as he raised both arms in the sky, before bringing the sword straight down upon his foe.

The Blackfish rolled aside. He grabbed one of the arrows protruding from the deck, and without hesitation, flung it at his face. Euron caught it in mid-air, but not before the arrowhead pierced through his left eye.

Cackles turned to yells. The arrow's fire had doused, but its tip was still smoking. _It burns._ Euron fled from his nemesis while he yanked out the arrow. Blood was screaming from his eye. He had lost control of himself – still running, albeit not sure where. Euron began to feel faint.

He toppled over.

**8\. The Northlands**

_Leave my mind._

Furious snow had killed the fire, but the forest was still smoking. White-hot pains rung through his belly and eye. Any movement he tried to make, agony hit him where the spears were still stuck. He saw the White Walkers surround him with their army of corpses.

_Please, leave my mind alone!_

In his dying breath, he opened his mouth feebly to try to burn as many as he could. All that escaped his jaws was cool smoke. _They are going to turn me._ The feeble effort was the last he could muster before they climbed on him like roaches. It was over in seconds.

"They must come to save me," he heard. "They must."

Bran was in the dungeons. _No, I must go back!_ He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his mind to focus, to find the Lands of Always Winter again, but when he opened his eyes, all he saw was the dungeons. "They must come to save me," the man was still saying, chewing his white hair. Flies began encircling him, and he vigorously shook his head to drive them away. In that moment, his face, previously covered in tangled locks, was exposed, and Bran recognized the gaunt, dirty face of Mad King Aerys Targaryen.

He suddenly realized where he was, and what was happening. _The Defiance of Duskendale. When, for several months, King Aerys was captured by the Lord of Duskendale, before being rescued by Tywin Lannister and Barristan Selmy._ Bran was more than five-and-twenty years back in time, he realized, the time before the fall of House Targaryen.

The voice of the Three-Eyed Raven came back to him in macabre reminder. "The past is already written. The ink is dry," it said, but it was up to him to change it. The Walkers were a legion of a hundred thousand, maybe more, and now they had an ice dragon. The fall of man must be prevented, even if the cost was time. "Aerys," he said aloud. "Aerys! Aerys! Aerys!"

The Mad King was suddenly alert. "Who is that? Who speaks?"

_He can hear me!_ Aerys could hear, but not see him. No matter, it was good enough. "I come from the future!" he yelled, hoping against hope he was still heard. "The army of the dead is on the march! The Night King, the White Walkers, they are all real! Send every man you can spare north of the Wall! Only you can do this, do you hear? You are the chosen one! Burn them! Burn them all!"

Bran felt himself pull away from the dungeon, his mind taking him to another memory. He tried his best to stay, to listen to his response. "Do you hear me?" he said, voice increasingly desperate. "Do you hear me?" _Change history, please, maybe Father will still live, maybe Robb, Rickon…_

The last Brandon Stark saw, before the dungeons dissolved, was the Mad King's eyes lighting up in realization. "Yes," he said. "I am the chosen one. A dragon does not kneel."

**9\. The Twins**

As he saw the madness unfolding on the Green Fork, he realized how vastly they had underestimated the enemy.

Jaime Lannister looked on with his four trusted men and his useless hand, as sixty thousand soldiers tried to break through the portcullis of the western tower. To his left, a good distance away was a hamlet, and through the mist, he saw the lighting of fires. The commonfolk were clearly awake, watching the war from afar, and in all probability, wanting Lord Lannister to lose.

King Edmure Tully may have merely five-thousand men, but he was putting them to good use. Three thousand were engaged in naval combat with Euron, and seemingly winning. They had torn apart his formation, drowned ships of food and tents, set fire to vessels the Greyjoys had seized, and even had a trebuchet east of the river lobbying stones on the fleet. Jaime wished his forces could send men to break the giant catapult, but unfortunately, it was on the other side of the bridge, at the moment untouchable.

Of the remaining two thousand, around half of them were garrisoned on the west tower, currently being assaulted by sixty-thousand Lannisters. Jaime had no doubt it would fall – the question was when – but in the meantime, the Tullys were gaining every inch of advantage they could. Men shoved boulders from windows. Archers launched fiery arrows from the bridge. At times, even the trebuchet would launch stones in the middle of the Lannister army. They were losing men by the second.

Jaime did not know where the remaining thousand Tullys were. Some of them were on the bridge, loosening arrows wherever they saw foes. Some formed the crew that tossed rocks into the sky. The remaining men – perhaps five hundred of them – Jaime presumed would be in the eastern tower. _Even after the western tower is conquered, another arduous siege awaits. Excellent news._

One of Jaime's personal guards, watching the battle from a distance like he was, looked in his direction. "My lord," he began, perhaps about to pontificate on the dark underbellies of war, but before he could, he fell from his horse. _The drunk,_ Jaime thought, before he noticed the blood.

Before he turned around, he knew they were there. His guards fell to the snow like flies, prey to multiple arrows. Alone, Jaime looked to pull out his sword, but before his hand reached, a familiar voice rung from the blinding fog. "Don't be a fool, Kingslayer."

Edmure Tully and his band of dozen men emerged from the haze. The King of the Trident looked like a man transformed – shaggy beard, determined eyes and the hint of a crown amidst overgrown hair. "Get off your horse," he commanded briefly. And at once, some of his men grabbed and yanked him to the snowy ground.

"Quite the surprise you prepared for us, Tully," Jaime said grimly, as the hands pulled him back up to face their king. "But of course, it was probably your uncle that planned this. You were never quite the strategist."

Edmure spat in his face. "I still remember the day you threatened to catapult my child across the walls of Riverrun," he said, eyes boring into Jaime's. "The thought alone makes me want to gut you while I can."

"But you cannot," Jaime said, frowning right back. "You need me to lift this siege and save your men, do you not?" He gave a humorless laugh, and white vapor escaped his lips. "I must admit, this was very bold plan. The catapult across the bridge tears through as many ships as it can, and the tower holds out until you and your mates sneak up on me. _Very_ bold, indeed. How is it you did not hide behind thick walls, instead sneaking around with only a dozen men?"

Now it was Edmure's turn to laugh. "I fight with my people, unlike you. And do you really think the King of the Trident would walk around dangerous territories with only a dozen men?" As Jaime saw, more silhouettes followed behind Edmure. As they came closer, his eyes widened. "There are _hundreds_."

"Four hundred. We hid in the hamlet to the west. I had to leave the eastern keep largely unguarded. But enough chat."

Edmure's men marched toward the western keep with Jaime, before Edmure yelled for their attention. When the Lannister forces turned, Edmure showed them him. "Here is your lord halfhand!" he exclaimed. "His golden cock brought to justice by brave Tully men!" The ones on the tower cheered. "I believe he has something to say!"

Jaime grimaced, unable to comprehend how they had reached this point. They were eighty-thousand before the battle began, and now the Greyjoy ships had sunk, a trebuchet was fucking them from across the Green Fork, and he was a wrong word away from death. _If I do not surrender, it may be worse._

Jaime opened his mouth to speak. "Men!" he said. And then he stopped.

_The trebuchet._

Jaime had just realized that, for the past five minutes or so, the enormous catapult had stopped firing rocks. Even the men on the bridge were not launching their fire arrows.

And then he heard it.

The mist was heavy, but the noise unmistakable. Something was streaking through the bridge, hurtling toward the western tower. Jaime saw banners and men on horseback ram through the unguarded portcullis, breaching the defenses of the western tower. _Thousands of men. Another army._ Not half a minute later, they exploded from the gates the Lannisters were trying to open all this while.

Without preamble, the thousands of men charged in the direction of Jaime. Edmure Tully's four hundred men sprinted to meet them, but they were no match for the onslaught. Within minutes, this unknown army had entirely decimated the trebuchet, the men on the bridge, the western keep, the king's four hundred men, and, as Jaime finally found the bloody remains of his corpse and crown, the King of the Trident himself.

By now, he had seen the sigil, but had no idea why, or if, it had come to his aid. The leader of the house, after spotting him, trotted the horse in his direction. He removed his helmet. "I hope the Queen will forgive us for our lateness, Ser Jaime," said Lord Littlefinger. His eyes were full of fear.

**This concludes Season 7 of Alternate Game of Thrones. Season 8 will have eight episodes, and S08E01 will be published in three days (26****th**** March 2019)**

**P.S. This alternate story has been a labor of my love. At its halfway mark, I'd like to take the chance to express my gratitude for those took the time to read and review it. The support I've received has been humbling. I hope Season 8 will not disappoint you!**


	11. Season 8 Episode 1

**1\. The Wall**

The fall of man was near, and it was all his fault.

Not minutes ago, Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen swooped to the courtyard of Castle Black, met by Dolorous Edd and awed men of the Night's Watch. Jon thought to comfort Daenerys, who stared at the sky in hopes that Rhaegal and Viserion would return. His tongue failed him. They stood together, ignoring exclamations of surprise and fear of the men in black, greeting questions with somber faces, until they stopped speaking and left.

Their eyes were teary, hearts broken. Jon thought to hug her, pat her on the back, or even, with a simple exchange of the eyes, communicate to her how sorry he was. But in every other second, his mind became repossessed with the giant monster plummeting to the snow, snow where the Night King stood.

Hours later, as a bleak sun rose, trying its best to break the night, with it came Rhaegal. Daenerys gave a shout of joy at his sight, which soon turned to fright when she saw the blood. The dragon was bleeding, albeit not profusely, but in dire need for rest. As they tended to it, in whichever way they could, Rhaegal's screeches awoke other men of the Night's Watch.

Dolorous Edd soon approached them. "Are you Queen Daenerys Targaryen?" he asked her apprehensively, not wanting to get closer to the dragons. Upon her assent, Edd gave her a sealed parchment. "A raven arrived for you last night."

After looking at its contents, Daenerys requested for a private chamber, which was soon granted. The moment they were alone, she broke her oath of silence in an abruptly efficient manner. "There has been a battle at the Twins," she said. "The Lannisters have emerged victorious. Cersei has reconquered the Riverlands. They need to be stopped."

It took Jon a moment to register what she had said. Riverrun, Winterfell… they all seemed utterly irrelevant, trivial shards of minutiae no one would care for when the Walkers breached the Wall. "That is bad news," he said, trying to show sympathy to Daenerys. "But not nearly as bad as the, _events_, at the Haunted Forest. It seems like the fall of man…" he said, before stopping at her fierce gaze.

"There will be no such thing," she said. "Before me stands an avenger of Viserion, of men turned evil, of wildlings and the Wall. He is everything the Night King is not, and he will emerge victorious. Do you understand? If you need more men, command the northmen from Barrowton to aid you. I will also send you a thousand-and-twenty Tyrells. But if you wish to surrender, I will have your head."

She was right. _I am the shield that guards the realms of men._ Facing the army of the dead with its ice dragon may mean certain death, but better die with Longclaw in hand than a flag of white. "Thank you for reminding me of the oath I once took. I accept your command," he said, before adding the phrase he knew she would not miss, "… my Queen."

**2\. The Summer Sea**

The scorching sun forced his eye open. He sat up wearily, dazed and confused, not knowing where he was. He drew in a rattling breath, vision still foggy, and caught summer and salt water. "Dorne," he whispered.

"Close," came a familiar voice behind him.

Euron Greyjoy turned around to see a shirtless Cragorn rowing their boat. The journey had thinned his otherwise broad chest, although his heavily tattooed arms were still muscular. The rays of the sun reflected from his shining bald head, yet nothing deterred him from rowing on. "You finally wake," he told him.

"I do." It had not taken long for Euron to remember where he was. His hand reached to his wounded eye, and only felt a tightly tied cloth. Blood was still spilling from it. "Did we lose the battle?" he asked.

"Do not know," Cragorn said, eyes still on his oars. "Fled with you when I found you in the sea. Stopped at Dragonstone on the way for supplies. Rowed away from enemies and smugglers till you woke. Time to row back up the Narrow Sea and see what awaits us."

As Euron's headache subsided, he began to think clearer. "No," he told Cragorn. "Victory or not, fleeing from the Twins will have lost me Cersei's grace. I have no lands, no men to return to. Gaining them back would be difficult, but I have a plan. Head east."

**3\. The Wall**

Grief and rage were emotions too strong for duty to battle.

For a while, Daenerys Targaryen thought she could win it. When the crow came to her bearing news of the topple of the Twins, she was reminded that on the other side of a land filled with unimaginably horrifying monsters, existed kingdoms and castles she laid claim to. This was her land. Viserion was, at best, dead… but there were other children that needed her.

And, for a while, Daenerys Targaryen met success. Putting emotion aside and giving crisp commands to Snow surprised even herself. She knew they were necessary. She needed to stop Cersei Lannister before she was tempted to steal Winterfell or Dorne from under her nose. And, with a war with dead men looming, Jon was best suited to rally the troops.

Mayhaps it was a sign of worry that being firm in decisions was a sign of surprise. All this while, she thought like a dragon, dealing fire and blood to those who opposed her, wiping the unjust to herald its opposite. _But what did that bring you?_ a sneaky voice inside her said. _Olenna, Jorah, Tyrion, Viserion…_

While Daenerys waited in vain for Viserion, ice winds slicing through her skin with laze, the reality of her transience was as clear as it was cold. She commanded eight-thousand Unsullied, nearly a hundred-thousand Dothraki, and had allied with men of Dorne, the Reach and the North, but none of that turned her skin to steel. When the stars did not align for her child, it plummeted to the White Walkers like a poor sparrow, and if they chose not to for her, fate would barely shrug as she was defiled, raped or beheaded.

In that moment, warm tears ran down her cheeks, breaking into a thousand shards as they touched the snow.

Duty lost the battle, but not without a final hurrah. It gave her the sense to wish for private sanctuary before tears streamed like summer springs. Her duty as queen reminded her that none could see her cry, not Dolorous Edd, not Jon Snow. For the sake of saving her authority, she forced herself to weep alone.

When Jon found her, the tears were dry, but eyes still red and swollen. One look at his anxious countenance, and she thought they would escape her again. He finally tried to put voice to his apologies. "We should never have come," he said, approaching her. "I could not imagine that the Night King had the power to do… what he did. I ask your forgiveness. Whatever punishment you have for me, I know it will be just."

She knew he felt immense guilt for his part in the death of Viserion. She ought to have been angered enough to wish to feed him to Drogon, but she was not. All Jon said and did, she knew, was in honesty and good faith. _He would have never hidden his tears from you,_ the nasty voice persisted. _If you cannot be more decent than a boy raised as a bastard, do you really deserve the Iron Throne more than him?_

"There's nothing to forgive," she said, the painful grit of duty returning. "If I had not seen them, I would never have believed they existed. I should thank you. Now I know the truth. I know I can trust you."

"You can," Jon said eagerly. "I will defend the Wall. The Night King will not cause the fall of Westeros, not when its best chance of peace and prosperity stands before me."

At his words, guilt assaulted her from a hundred different ways. _He thinks you're capable,_ the nasty voice spoke, _but you know that to be a lie._ She thought how he would react if she disappointed him, the men on the Wall and the entire realm, if Drogon plummeted from the sky and ended her with him. The thought alone slayed duty and resumed the onslaught of tears.

Alarmed, Jon wrapped his arms around her. "It will be all right," he was muttering, though a thumping heart betrayed his words. "It will be all right." He gently kissed her head. They began to separate. _It will be all right._

She did not know how it happened, but for the briefest of moments, grief, rage and duty were overcome by the force that brought them together.

It was but brief, and before she could comprehend what was happening, they parted. Jon's eyes were a blend of fear, guilt and a wonderment of consent. It was only after they kissed again did Daenerys Targaryen realize how much earlier it ought to have been done.

_It will be all right._

Somewhere outside, the crows had lit a fire, and smoke and light drifted into their chambers like ghouls. As two flesh became one, Daenerys caught a glimpse of the wall facing her, and on it, saw no shadow of another parting from him.

**4\. The Twins**

"I cannot believe that once, for the smallest of seconds, I thought you had changed."

Sansa Stark's men outnumbered Littlefinger's twenty-to-one; which was to say, while they walked to the hamlet beside the Twins, Littlefinger was alone, and Sansa was with twenty she trusted most, including Brienne and Ghost. Littlefinger had requested privacy from the Lannisters to speak to her, and Sansa obliged, though ready to command him killed were his reasons unsatisfactory.

"Lady Sansa," Littlefinger began, trying to form cute sentences to muddle her clear mind, but she would not have it. "How is it," she interrupted, "that simple laws of not betraying people seem so alien to you? Is it because snakes cannot grow spines?"

"They can," Littlefinger corrected, which only infuriated her further. "I understand you are upset, but if you would hear me out-"

"_Upset?_" she interrupted again, as they walked deeper into the hamlet, a place mostly deserted after the Tullys had fallen. "Why would I have any reason to be upset? It is only my uncle and the Blackfish who have died thanks to you. _Upset_ does not even begin to cover it. Of course, it would be hard for you to comprehend, Littlefinger, for it requires a person with an actual heart-"

"_Enough_," Littlefinger said, with such naked ferocity that Sansa found herself wary. "I did what I had to, what lowborns like me must. When we were in the Eyrie, Cersei Lannister sent me a raven commanding me to attack the Twins from the east. If I would have refused, the Tullys would have fallen anyway, and we would have been her next target. The Eyrie is a stronghold, but she could have starved us out, or kept us sieged in while she struck Winterfell. Instead, I took the opportunity to become a mole in Cersei's Council."

"You already told me this while we marched here," she reminded him. "I do not see how that redeems you."

"One man can be worth ten-thousand," he persisted. "I must keep my enemies close, and make no mistake, Cersei Lannister is my enemy. I underestimated her at first, but she now has the Stormlands, the Reach and now Riverrun at her side. I cannot stand around waiting for Daenerys Targaryen to bring her to justice. I control my own destiny, I protect my own men. How do you think the Tullys held on for as long as they did?"

Sansa was incredulous. _Does he still think of me as a summer child?_ Before she said anything, Brienne spoke besides, voicing her exact thoughts. "Do you honestly imply, Lord Baelish, that you were _helping_ the Tullys in the fall of the Twins?"

"I sent them ravens on battle strategies. If not for my aid, they would have died sooner-"

"Sooner than you came to _finish them off?_" Sansa challenged, aghast. She housed a lot of doubts about Baelish, but none of them were about his cunning. _He betrays the Tullys, clear as snow, and then professes to help them?_

"I did not finish them off, Lady Sansa," Littlefinger said, abruptly stopping. "I did what Cersei commanded me," he said, before his voice dropped to a whisper, "but I also did the Riverlands some good while I could." He gestured toward a small hut, its door slightly ajar, beckoning her to enter. Sansa instead signaled at Brienne to check if the room was clear of danger.

Brienne entered the hut cautiously, one hand on the hilt of her sword. As she vanished into the blackness of the home, Littlefinger told Sansa, "I sought private audience with you, to assure you that Cersei will pay for her sins. After what I have done, I do not expect you to believe me, Sansa. But I suppose you will believe _him_."

Sansa was confused. "Who?" she said, as Brienne came out hurriedly, eyes wide in surprise. "Lady Sansa," she said, quiet and quick, "please come inside."

Sansa's confusion turned to curiosity as she followed. It took her a while for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but the smell of sweat, flesh and blood was pungent from the start. With one hand covering her mouth, she looked around the house. Brienne took her arm, leading her to a darker, fouler corner of the room, and she heard the coughing intensify. When she got closer, it stopped abruptly, and dark brown eyes shone in her direction. "Who is that?" Sansa said, lack of light still blocking her vision.

"Ten-thousand men," Brienne said quietly, as the vision cleared, and Sansa saw a grimacing, panting, heavily bandaged, yet no less alive Brynden Blackfish. "I thought you were dead," Sansa said, shocked.

Brynden gave a tired chuckle. "Our conversations follow a pattern, do they not?" The jape was met with an involuntary wince. "The Arryns rescued me, while I floated in the sea with a broken leg," he said. "They took me here. With Edmure dead, I need to stay hidden. The Kingslayer will put me to the sword if they see me."

Now, as the dark cleared, Sansa saw more men sitting beside Brynden, falcons for sigils, sworn to guard the Blackfish. "Uncle Brynden," she asked him, "did Lord Petyr Baelish help you in the battle?"

"Not enough," he said, chuckling. "He did send battle recommendations across the Eyrie, but when the war was lost, turned on us like a rat. He has not handed me over to the Lannisters, at least, so I suppose that must count for something." He looked at Sansa's confused countenance, and gave another weak smile. "I can only tell you what I know, sweetling. Do not ask me if he is trustworthy. I am good at reading swings of swords, not the minds of men."

**5\. The Wall**

When he woke up, he was alone. A crescent moon peeked through the windows, the sole witness. Jon Snow clothed himself, aware of what was coming to him, dreading yet craving it at the same time. _It was incest,_ he reminded himself, trying to force the shame. But he still felt it, creeping from the moon, reaching toward him through the sounds, the scents, the wind that filled the air. His chest heaved in pleasure, and an involuntary, warm smile cracked his cheeks as lust filled his heart.

He found Daenerys, her back to Jon, where they stood last night. She was tending to and hugging Rhaegal, sad smiles on her lips. Her aura tamed the dragon, and for once, Jon fully grasped the grace and magnificence of the creature, regally rested on the courtyard of Castle Black like the king of all animals, against a sheer wall of ice. It was not the wind, Jon realized, but Daenerys who was silently whistling. A night ago, all they could think of were dread, despair and the fall of man. How things changed.

Daenerys turned around. "Jon," she said, with a smile caught between love and shame, of uneasiness and bliss, caught amid heaven and earth. "How… did you sleep?"

"Well." All men on the Wall were asleep, save few seven-hundred feet above them, staring at the lands beyond, yet Jon had the uneasy sense they were being watched. The crescent moon made him wary. _Can I touch her, or will the gods punish me?_ Their eyes and bodices were having conversations beyond their voice, yet Jon felt verbal acknowledgement a necessity. "What we did… if people find out…"

"Jon," she said, this time with more certainty, and more shame. "Ellaria Sand marches from Dorne, forcing the Lannisters to flee to King's Landing. She has stuck her neck out for me. If I do not help her, I may lose another ally. There can be no more delays. This is the time for me to take the Iron Throne. I'm sorry," she said, voice cracking slightly, "I am truly sorry. If I could, I would spend the end of my days with you. But I must go. Duties as queen come first."

The inevitable was here, but it did not stop Jon's heart from sinking. "I understand," he said, his face blank. "To safe journeys and happy conquests," he said, abruptly extending his arm for handshake.

As the Dragon Queen mounted Drogon, Jon saw the wounds on Rhaegal with increasing concern. "Are you certain Rhaegal is healthy enough to fly all the way to Barrowton?" he asked.

"He is not," Daenerys said, slightly smiling. "But, I think, he is able and willing enough to avenge his dead siblings. Besides, I think he is quite fond of you." And without another word Drogon became another star in the sky, leaving Jon with a green-and-bronze scaled fire-breathing beast beside him, and on his face, sheer bewilderment.

**6\. The Twins**

When the mist cleared, the totality of the damage was clear to see.

Splinters of a broken trebuchet lay in a heap. The Green Fork, choked with sunk ships, corpses and gore, looked like the Smoking Sea of Valyria. The two towers were covered in soot, blood and shattered windows, looking ready to kneel to the snow any moment. Jaime Lannister had been told that internal damages to the towers made them unfit for siege, and that if they wanted to hold Daenerys Targaryen at the Neck, they would have to find a better castle. The news did not in any way disappoint him. _I swear to never come this far north of Westeros, ever again._

Shortly after his puzzling encounter with Lord Littlefinger the night of the battle, the pair talked while men of the Westerlands and the Vale doused away remaining Tully flame. "Cersei never told me she made allies with the Arryns," Jaime said, in his politest way of challenging his most suspicious arrival. Littlefinger, with an equally puzzled expression, showed him a scroll proving exactly that. "Queen Cersei sent me this while I was in the Vale," he said. "She also told me that we must all retreat to King's Landing, for Dornishmen march to the capital."

_Of course._ Fleetingly, Jaime wondered if he could renege on his promise of not going further north, if it meant greater distance between him and Cersei. In keeping him away from important information, Jaime knew exactly the message she tried to send him, but her power plays were getting increasingly childlike. _She is becoming a disease, and I regret my role in spreading it._

But there was nothing to be gained in staying here any longer. The battle was deader than summer dust. The naval war had swallowed both Tully and Greyjoy forces, including Cersei's mad dog. Unless the Blackfish had gills in his belly, he assumed he had drowned in the water as well. King Edmure's corpse they hung on the ramparts as an unimaginative warning to the locals.

They had lost men too. Around ten-thousand Lannisters had fallen in the battle at the Twins, leaving them with fifty thousand. He planned to garrison some of them at Riverrun to form a welcoming party for Daenerys on the way to the capital. Now that the Freys and Tullys were dead, a new Lord of the Riverlands must be appointed. "Lord Baelish," he said, "did Cersei specify to you who that will be?"

Littlefinger gestured to the man beside him. "This is Lord Yohn Royce," he told him. "Previously mentor to Robin Arryn."

_Of course._

**7\. The Wall**

The silver chain hung heavy around his neck as Castle Black finally came in sight.

War-torn Westeros had compromised the kingsroad or any chances of travel by land, forcing them, once again, and much to Samwell Tarly's displeasure, to voyage by sea. Before his forged chains had time to cool, they had made haste from Oldtown before the weather proved a further impediment.

They sailed along the west coast of Westeros, past Pyke and Bear Island, with plans to eventually dock near Westwatch-by-the-Bridge. Little Sam was left behind with the maesters. The boy had learned how to walk and talk, but the climate that awaited them was too wild to risk his life. Besides, Oldtown was probably the safest place in Westeros, Sam had told a tearful Gilly.

He had sent ravens to Dolorous Edd the moment any facts relating White Walkers crossed his eye. The words flew across the continent. _Stashes of obsidian in Skagos. Secret passageways from the Nightfort. Fire can only burn a wight, not a White Walker!_ It was only now that he would know for certain if his words reached the right hands.

Oldtown was the place where rumors became fact or fiction, but Sam still fretted over the fate of Jon. The last he heard, he had briefly won the battle at Winterfell, been heralded the King in the North, then shortly set off to Barrowton to fight against Queen Daenerys from Meereen. _The Targaryen Maester Aemon spoke of, the Queen across the Water._

Samwell may have been maester of medicine and healing, but were it not for Gilly, the long journey surely would have taken his life. She had praised his stale bread and salt fish to make it sound edible. She had gently patted him on the back as he puked along the hull, dribbling into the rocking waves. She sung him to sleep when the sea threatened to swallow their ship. And as the Wall inched closer and nights grew longer and chillier, they gave each other heat, entwined as one under one black blanket.

The sorry carriage The Shadow Tower offered took them longer to reach, but they were finally here. The castles they crossed in the nights were so many Sam kept losing count, but he recognized Castle Black the moment he saw it. "We made it, Gilly," he said, waking her up from her sleep.

Castle Black had a seven-hundred feet wall of ice on its northern side, but its fortifications on the rear were embarrassingly scarce. It was because of this, as he reached closer, did Sam catch a silhouette of the giant beast against the enormous white façade. Its cold black eyes glistened through the night. They saw.

For a second, Sam was back in Oldtown, engrossed in Archmaester Marwyn's _The Book of Lost Books_. One of his descriptions spoke of what he saw, what he thought he saw. The legendary eyes of pale blue crystal, and breath ice cold.

_I am too late. The battle is already lost._

But before Samwell thought to flee, the dragon screeched in the air, to his intense relief, fire.

The momentary shower of lights alerted sentries to Samwell's presence, and soon, a horn tooted in the night. Samwell's relief was instantly replaced with a gush of curiosity and fear. Beside him, Gilly voiced what he was thinking, "A dragon… in Westeros?"

Then the massive doors opened, and there was Jon Snow.

**8\. Valyria**

Without the potions, Euron Greyjoy could scarce contemplate how the time would have passed.

Cragorn and him took turns digging the area where they had last hidden it. "I swear by the gods," he said, while his hands grabbed mud and flung it on a small pile besides, "every time we bury it, it seems to move underground. Place is cursed."

The Crow's Eye sneered at his comment. "I could not care less if this place is cursed," he said, "as long as pirates and pillagers are too afraid to come here and find my prize." While Cragorn was digging, his humble boat shuddered as Euron danced on it. He had given himself to the spirits completely. His throat felt famished, but he had already exhausted the last of the essence.

"Why Meereen?" Cragorn was saying. Euron got the impression that he had asked several times before, but the spirits took away his gift of hearing. He licked his lips, absent-mindedly fingering his dark black eye of malice. "Meereen," he repeated, his other eye gazing at the ruins of Valyria with lust. "Where curious cultures have converged, and brave men stand their sentries. Unrealized talent, put to as much use as nipples on a breastplate." Uncontrollable chuckles began to escape him. "I hear the leader of the Second Sons, Daario Naharis, sits there." He spat bright blue phlegm in the Smoking Sea. "What a waste."

"The very same? I have not heard of him in-" Cragorn said, before his arms hit solid steel. At the sound, Euron jumped off the docked ship and ran towards him. "Did you find it?" he asked excitedly.

When they entirely dug it out, it was as beautiful as the time when Euron found it years ago. The pure, shiny reflection only Valyrian steel gave. The black gleam was blended with bloodred gold, painted on a warm and smooth surface. It took the both of them to carry the horn of six feet long to their boat. Before they set sail, he gave it a kiss.

"You think this will be payment enough?" Cragorn asked.

"Oh, yes." Euron and Daario's paths had crossed more than once during his time in exile. He knew how he thought. "I had invited him to fight with Greyjoy. Gold was put on the table, and he seemed ready to set sail, but something stopped him. I think it's time we resume talks. This should do the trick."

"No," a harsh voice croaked. "I think not."

Something dropped on their boat, lean, grim with eyes of blue and flesh black as malice. He reeked of death, and the stench was pungent yet known. Euron's chuckles turned louder. _Fool,_ he told himself playfully, _with your eye you lost all your wits as well. What made you forget of stone men in Valyria?_

Euron lunged confidently, looking to knock him in the water, before he realized there were three of them. He went for the one on the left, putting all his force behind the shove. The stone man came closer, closer, until Euron passed right through him and hit Cragorn instead, who tipped over.

Now there were four.

"In these warm, bare shores of Valyria," they echoed across the ruins, "I cursed the absence of my role in the rightful queen's bid. But if what you say is true, if Daario Naharis did not set sail on my say, mayhaps I achieved a lot more than I thought. Maybe I can do more. After all, I have nothing to lose."

Four dead men converged. Euron tried to fight them all away, but his hands mostly touched air. It was not long before the Crow's Eye realize they were all one man.

In the confusion, flashes of his battle against the Blackfish came back. _No,_ a voice told him. _This will not be another defeat._ As his vision cleared and the lone stone man became clearer in sight, Euron knew what he had to do.

"Exile was my best teacher," he said, "it showed me that the world is madness and cruelty. Do you believe the bards? Do you believe everyone gets a happy ending? Do you think your queen is proud of you? And did you hope," he said, as he grabbed the man without hesitation, much to his surprise, "that I would be too craven to touch you? Fool. A storm does not bow, and I am the storm. The first storm, and the last."

He forced the stone man's lips to the horn, and forced him to blow. As an inhuman screech rung across the ruins of Valyria, boiling the Smoking Sea, Euron Greyjoy saw eagerly into the eyes of the stone man, seemingly lucid enough to feel pain and death, for in that moment, the Crow's Eye found in the poor soul's eyes the very depths of doom.


	12. Season 8 Episode 2

**1\. The Neck**

Daenerys was thankful she had commanded her men to prepare themselves before she flew beyond the Wall. It made marching away from freezing Barrowlands much quicker.

In the time between her arrival at the town and their departure, curious looks and questions about missing dragons had prompted her to hold a Dragon Council with Varys, Missandei, Grey Worm, Qhono and Paxter Redwyne. She recalled the finer details of the meeting. She had addressed them without preamble. "The White Walkers are real."

The news had hit everyone like a stone. Jon Snow had left them with enough to suspect such, but they could always comfort themselves with veils of doubt, lack of corroborations or the superstitious natures of northmen. Before her eyes, she had seen it all disappear.

Redwyne had spoken first, if she could recall well. "So, what happens now?"

"We go on," she had said, mapping in detail the plan to fight both battles. Jon was a skilled swordsman, a proven leader and had fought the Night King before, but he needed help to win the war. Daenerys knew Redwyne would argue with her over her decision to send thousand-and-twenty of his men to Castle Black, but he would have to concede in the end. "I gave Jon Rhaegal," she had ended the argument simply. "Surely you can spare half your men?"

The rest of the council had passed with little surprise, she recalled, as she rode her horse past snowy lands. Not one mentioned the other missing dragon. _We have a long journey ahead of us,_ Daenerys thought to herself. _I will tell them soon, just not now._

She wondered where Varys was now. Minutes after the Dragon Council ended, he had come to her with information and a proposition. She had given her assent, which meant Varys had left the night before they did. He had the right of it, she knew, but it did not stop her from wondering if it was risky of her to assent to his ideas, as it equally was for him to embark on the lone quest alone save few trusted men.

**2\. King's Landing**

The wench in front of her was with dirty blond hair, most of it looking chewed. Her eyes were pale blue and shifty, darting at paintings, exhibited swords or intricate designs on walls and ceilings. She had made no attempt to make her saggy teats erect or wear anything other than garbs of grey, Cersei Lannister noticed.

It was Qyburn who began the conversation. "_Mhaegen_," he said. "I hope I am saying that correctly."

'Mhaegen' silenced him with a look of utter disdain. Cersei would have loved to return the glare, but instead, played the part of the Queen. "We are so very charmed with your presence," she said, scorn oozing like the smell of shit from the commoner. "We hope your stay at the Red Keep will be a pleasant one."

"I was thinking the same," she replied with equal irony and a broken, discordant accent. "If not, friends in the capital will hear of it."

Wildly, Cersei thought to test that claim. If she decided to throw her in Ser Gregor's cells, she would like to know how the Righteous Saviors would be privy to that information. A part of her, at least, wanted to hint at the threat. _Would it really be unbecoming to casually mention that Ser Gregor Clegane was short of his playthings?_

She stopped herself in time. By Qyburn's accounts, Mhaegen was a fanatic of the Seven, bred from the bins of Flea Bottom, who had garnered an audience with passionate homilies. After Cersei burned her faith to ashes, she rose in the ranks of the Righteous Saviors. Circumstances meant she managed to stumble upon power like warriors find whores during war. Giving her a place on the Small Council was the only way to pacify the people.

After she left, Qyburn turned to Cersei. "'Master of Men?'" he said, worried. "I suppose you intend to keep her as a puppet, but we cannot underestimate what happens when foolish people are given power."

"No, we cannot," she replied coldly. "Qyburn, I realize the strain I have put you under has been burdensome, but rest assured you will no longer be asked to perform them. You can continue to work on your corpses and potions. I will let you know if I have need of your services. Oh, and may I have your badge."

"Your… Grace?"

Qyburn's protests were timid and quick, and each weak argument that he gave simply reminded Cersei how unworthy he was of the badge with golden fingers. After the battle at the Twins they were sixty-thousand strong, including ten-thousand men of Arryn. Some of them would be garrisoned in Riverrun on their march south, in an attempt to slow Daenerys Targaryen's path. Ellaria Sand was snaking from Dorne with twenty-thousand men. Euron's whereabouts were unheard of.

Times were bleak, and she needed an experienced, slick and proven mind to become her Hand and win her this war. Besides, Lord Petyr Baelish had delivered on his ambitious promises, and a Lannister always paid their debts.

**3\. Winterfell**

He was back in the Haunted Forest, reliving the time when White Walkers sealed victory. As they neared him, again, he sucked in chilling wind that hurt his nose. _This time, maybe._ When he felt the fire churn in his bodice, he let go with all the strength he could stomach. Again, all that escaped his lips was cool smoke.

_The past is already written. The ink is dry._

Snow fell on his face, but melted against hot skin. It took him but a second to realize that he was in the now. Tall, cold stone walls stood before him. Bran heard Meera speak behind, but words did not register. His heart melted with relief as he saw the gates of home in reality and not dreams.

As Meera Reed spoke to the sentries, dreams became in Bran's mind memories. _The Defiance of Duskendale_, he recalled. _The Ice Dragon_. As one of the guards went inside, presumably to call Lady Lyanna, Bran's eyes widened as truth and time became one.

_Robert's Rebellion…_

"Bran, what is the matter?" Meera was looking at him now, eyes frowned in worry. "You were under a long time. Are the visions hard to control? What happened to Robert's Rebellion?"

It was after Meera's words that Bran realized he was, indeed, muttering _Robert's Rebellion_ to himself. While delving into times past and future became increasingly simple, it came at the cost of personal control. Bran spoke of what he had done. "It was me, Meera," he said. "I made Aerys Targaryen mad."

"You… what?"

Sins escaped Bran's mouth like ghosts now. "I began Robert's Rebellion," he was saying. "The White Walkers have a dragon. I tried to fix things. I thought I could make things right, but… but…"

Bran's speech faltered to an abrupt halt. The fever had severely worn him out, every sentence made his mouth and nose hurt, and with the cold, his hands were halfway to feeling as numb and lifeless as his feet. Meera, who seemed to have gathered her bearings, bent and looked into his eyes. "Do not fool yourself, Bran," she said. "_Of course_ you can make things right."

The gates opened.

"Lord Brandon Stark," another lady said, eyes bright and lips beaming. "Welcome home."

**4\. The Riverlands**

With no one save herself for company, the days had crawled like slow roaches.

_Stay as invisible as possible while keeping an eye on them_, Lady Sansa's words had rung in her ears. It was an elementary enough maxim to follow. During the days, she saw them order seafood stews and pass the time in meandering conversations. At nights, they remained huddled in their cottage, and only on occasion one guard left the house, only to return an hour later.

Shadowing men was more mundane than it was suspenseful. Most of the time, it involved a casual stare from the opposite cottage or sitting two tables behind, keeping her head as stooped as possible, avoiding eye contact and conversations. The chances of them spotting suspicious activity were so slim, Brienne sometimes wished, for the sake of change, that she defied the odds.

As the days threatened to turn into a week, Brienne felt her spirit falter, knowing that Lady Sansa's worries were for naught. Yet, by sheer sense of duty, she had forced herself to stay awake through the night, peering through her window at the cottage opposite. Every time her eyes drooped, she forced herself to smell her stale, curdy soup, the pungent smell of which reawakened her.

The soldier had left the cottage two hours ago, yet had not returned. She clutched her sword in her hand with feeble hopes that the abnormal activity may be a sign of trouble. Her mood sank when the sentry returned, scroll in hand, knocking on the cottage door. However, when it opened, instead of him entering, he called the other four guards out.

They were chatting animatedly, although over the wind, she could hear little. But actions spoke louder, and Brienne's intrigue turned to shock when she saw the daggers unsheathe.

There would be no time to don any armor. Brienne grabbed her sword and slipped out of her cottage. They were only a few yards ahead of her, and she thought to sneak up on them, but before she could, she faintly heard them all agree on entering the house together.

_If they enter the cottage, I will have failed._

She yelled. The five men turned. Before they could react, Oathkeeper sliced through the man slowest to notice. Hot blood fell on the snow and crackled.

The other men had their guard up, but they had knives while Brienne had a sword of Valyrian steel. As she picked them off one by one, the guards, looking at their fallen friends, began to bargain and, ultimately, beg. Brienne would have none of it. She was mercilessly intent on adhering to duty.

It was only when the last man fell that Brienne feel a sting on her shoulder. The cold had numbed her senses. _There is no time for that._ She rushed into the cottage. "Ser Brynden!" she yelled. A groan from the corners of the house answered her.

His eyes were alert, clearly after hearing the commotion that happened outside, but his body was relaxed. "They were going to kill you," she told him, when she found him. "Do not worry, you are safe now."

Brienne realized how foolish the comment was when the Blackfish greeted it with harsh chuckles. "Safe?" he said. "Is that why I feel so cold and empty inside? Or is it because the men who were assigned to guard me tried to take my life?"

"I will protect you," Brienne said. "Lady Sansa has commanded me-"

"People command a lot of things, Brienne," Brynden said, waving her off. "They will not stop until a noose is around my throat. If I stay in one place, I will be caught, but with my leg, fleeing is not an option. Why bother myself, when it can all end with much lesser pain?"

Brynden's newfound defeatism was beginning to vex her. "You may not find solace in fulfilling your duties anymore," she said, "but I do. I can take you to King's Landing, and Sansa can protect you there, but not if you prefer death and nothingness. Growing up, I heard a lot of stories about the Blackfish, but looking at you, I only see an old, craven man. Can you prove me otherwise?"

Through the blackness, Brienne saw the Blackfish's face staring at her. He was half a cripple mangled on the floor and she had the bloody Valyrian steel in hand, yet Brienne could not shake away the worrying sense that she needed to flee for her safety. _Did I take it a touch too far?_

Then came the tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

**5\. The Neck**

She dreamed she was a block of ice, floating toward the shores of Meereen. As the giant pyramids came closer, her body began to melt in the salty sea. Despite what felt like death, she felt strange calm, as if solitude and dissolution was all she wished for. Just before the last crystals dissolved completely into the waters, she saw a final glimpse of the freed slaves of the city. They looked happy.

It was only after she woke did Daenerys Targaryen realize she was interrupted from her soundest sleep in days. As her eyes slowly forced themselves open, her nose reminded her of the stale vomit she had brought up hours before going to sleep. The march from Barrowton had been awful, but the rides on Drogon may also have been a reason for an upset stomach.

The image in front of her, calling out her name, was a blur. Daenerys supposed it would be Missandei – she was the only one who slept with her in their tent – but when the vision cleared, she saw instead, to her great surprise, Qhono.

The strange sight startled her awake. Qhono had never previously entered her quarters. "What is it?" she said in Dothraki, ears now straining for clues. "Are we under attack?"

"Worse," came his reply.

When he told her the news, it only took a second of hesitation before Daenerys sat upright. Hurriedly grabbing whichever sheet she could, she covered herself and stepped into the cold dawn. Bar silver mist and a weak, rising sun, the horizon was forbidding and empty. "It is of no use now, _Khaleesi_," Qhono said beside her. "They are long gone."

"How many?" she said, eyes still darting as far as they could.

"A good number," Qhono replied evasively. "Where they go, I do not know. They may have gone to hunt for castles or cottages to pillage or-"

"_How many?"_

"Thousand-and-fifteen." Qhono's face was grim, yet his tone seemed to Daenerys almost mocking.

She wished dearly to mount Drogon, hunt down the fleeing khalasars and bring them to justice, but something about Qhono's tone stopped her. It was a tone she noticed had increased slowly in Dragon Councils, as news of the deaths of Tyrion Lannister, Lady Olenna and Theon Greyjoy kept coming to light. They had reason to undermine her, but Daenerys had thought aside from snide comments they would amount to nothing more.

_But that was before you flew beyond the Wall with three dragons, and returned with one._

Between sending her men to Jon Snow and losing them tonight, in no time, her army had dwindled from ninety-eight to sixty-three thousand. It was time Daenerys Targaryen stopped wondering what a queen ought to do and, instead, followed the heart of the dragon. "Awake all the men," she commanded Qhono. "We march early today."

If the Dothraki wanted their khaleesi to show strength, Daenerys Targaryen thought, as she mounted her steed, the wind not feeling nearly as chilly against her skin as it did an hour ago, she was glad to surpass their expectations.

**6\. Riverrun**

Despite all she had heard from her mother, it was the first time Sansa Stark had been to her mother's birthplace. Massive stone walls of white imposed upon her, threatening to fall and shatter everyone into tiny bits. The great drawbridge lay open, a gaping mouth. The deserted castle was probably housed by tramps, beggars and few remaining Freys hoping for shelter from winter, before Lannister and Arryn men stormed inside to clear the castle.

They were not supposed to stay here for long. Littlefinger had told her that Daenerys Targaryen had reached the Neck and, while that was a fair distance away, if she chose to swarm in with her dragons, the Lannisters would lose a lot of men. Instead, they would leave thousand-and-ten garrisoned in the castle – half Lannister, half Arryn – and name Yohn Royce Lord of Riverrun and Warden of the Riverlands, before continuing their retreat to the capital.

As Sansa and Ghost leisured through the interiors, she saw the Kingslayer approach them. From his body language, she knew he was seeking her out. "Lady Sansa," he said, hoping to dispel the growls of Ghost with the courteous greeting, "I hope your time outside of King's Landing was pleasant. I wanted you to know… when you fled after the death of Joffrey, it was me who sent Lady Brienne to protect you. Your time in the capital will not be another unpleasant experience. I swear it."

His tone seemed sincere, yet Sansa could not help replying, "I mean no offence, Ser Jaime, but I did not choose to come to King's Landing on the honor of a Lannister. Not after what the gallant Prince Joffrey put me through."

Sansa wondered how Jaime would react to her brazen disrespect to him and his child, but the Kingslayer gave a chuckle. "He was a cunt, was he not?" he said, more to himself than to her.

Heading into King's Landing, Sansa had a thousand northmen on her side. That may not count much against the horde of Lannister and Arryn armies, but she knew Cersei could not afford to make another grave enemy in the northmen. Besides, Sansa suspected a lot about Littlefinger, but amidst all possible deliberations in her mind, the one certainty she had in her mind was that he did not wish upon her harm. _I have a powerful ally in him,_ she thought, _but unlike Father, when I reach the capital, I intend to make more._

As the men made final preparations to depart from Riverrun, Littlefinger called her quickly. He was conversing with Jaime and other bannermen, when he saw him. "If you would excuse me," he said briefly, before he broke away from the men in Sansa's direction. His voice was quiet and quick. "I want you to send a scroll to Ellaria Sand of Dorne," he said. "I do not trust Yohn Royce to do this, and there will be too many eyes in the capital." Before she could say anything, Littlefinger shoved the parchment in her hands and returned to his conversations.

As Sansa made her way to the rookeries, she spent no time hesitating whether she ought to read its contents. The instructions were long and detailed, and Littlefinger made it clear that it could be the last trustworthy correspondence between him and Ellaria, but his words of turning traitor against the Lannisters were certainly not wind.

_He did promise to rid the world of Cersei Lannister, Sansa thought, as she tied the scroll to the raven._

**7\. Winterfell**

When Garrett Greenspear entered his chambers to bid farewell, Bran stubbornly pretended to be asleep until he gave up the ghost. Aside from the fact that he found Garrett and the company of his mates most disagreeable, Bran found he had no energy to participate in lordly duties. His body was on fire, from hair on the head to the tip of his toes.

During the journey, in the few moments Bran was awake, Meera Reed had insisted that the fever would subside once they were inside the walls of Winterfell. She lied, he thought with the stubborn insistence of a babe every time he saw her. The heat was still alive and active under his skin, at the best of times making him retch, and at worst, relive the ice dragon and his failure with the Mad King. All the blankets and potions by Maester Wolkan had made no difference. He felt as useless as Sweetrobin, despite having no idea who he was.

Lyanna visited him soon after. "I have sent ravens to the king and Lady Sansa about your safe arrival, My Lord. I will let you know when they respond. How are you now?"

"Better," Bran lied. Lyanna had visited him often, always with the same question, and it felt impolite to repeat that there had been no improvements. "Has it been difficult to rule without any Starks in the castle?"

"A bit," she said, cheerily. "But the people have been patient, and they will certainly listen to you whenever you are ready to rule. They are still out there, celebrating your miraculous return. You would have been able to hear were it not for the winds and the walls."

"Lyanna," Bran said, hoping she would understand what he was about to say. "You must understand something. I can hold the title of Lord of Winterfell, yes, but I can never rule it with my fever and green dreams."

"But you are a Stark-"

"I am but a crippled and sickly child with the name of Stark," he said. "I can be your mouthpiece, and I can pretend to rule, but winter is here, and we know what comes with it. Should this castle be surrounded by an army of dead men, we need the best person to defend our lands. It is for the good of the people."

Lyanna was still adamant. "Be that as it may, my lord, Bear Island knows no ruler but that whose name is Stark."

"That's fair," he said, with a weak chuckle. "Well, then, I suppose I have no choice but to command you to command us."

**8\. The Wall**

Jon Snow always thought winter represented what was stark, barren, ruining or ruined, but when his mates took him to Mole's Town, the sights there gave him pause for thought.

After Ygritte and the wildlings sacked the village, it was never going to live up to its former pomp (if, indeed, pomp was an apt description), but the process was certainly underway. Commonfolk in need for shelter had decided to mend broken roofs and walls instead of making new ones. As the populace increased gradually, commerce returned to the streets. Dolorous Edd had decreed that the Night's Watch supplied them with grain. After rock bottom, there was no way to go but up.

Jon had worried himself to death, waiting for a reply from Sansa, patrolling the top of the Wall wondering when the wight of Viserion would make its appearance, trying to pronounce the dragon commands Daenerys had left in a parchment before leaving. Samwell's return made him forget his woes for a while, and they shared tales of Oldtown and the North when reunited, but the calm did not last. It was not before long that Edd decided to take him, Samwell and a couple of other rangers to Mole's Town for some ale. He claimed it was to catch up after a long absence, but Jon suspected it was because his constant anxiety was spreading to the rest.

Be that as it may, Edd was right. It took a couple of goblets of ale for Jon to vanquish his fears. They spent a lot of time reminiscing over their days of youth, and even though Jon had just met the other rangers – Elron and Tim Stone, their names were – before long they chatted like old mates. "To the watch!" they said, clinking glasses together before downing them.

Heads turned in their direction in the inn, and it was not before long that people began to approach them. "It's the King in the North!" they said cheerily. And now some wished to shake his hand, while others offered to buy him another cup. When the innkeeper heard of it, he even forgave Jon the debts they owed him.

_Word travels swifter than sound._ Even when Jon was at the Wall, worrying when his army from Barrowton would reach Castle Black, other men of the Night's Watch treated him with more reverence than they would a king. They had heard tales of his bravery against Ramsay Bolton and Daenerys Targaryen. At times, when they came to ask him for consent, Jon had to wearily remind them that it was Eddison Tollett who held Castle Black.

Their serving girl was also keen to begin a conversation. "Before Mole's Town was brought to its knees by the wildlings," she told him, "I was the daughter of the owner of an inn. The wildlings killed my mother and father. Since then, I have been forced to fend for myself. I know what it is to lose a family and feel so helpless, so alone, unwilling to accept what the gods have left you with. I can only imagine how hard it must have been for you."

The girl's words brought back to Jon times of the past. "Sometimes," he told her, "when I sat freezing at the edge of the world while my family died, I wished I would find them waiting for me at Mole's Town. Father, Arya, Robb, Rickon…" his voice trailed away. The ale was taking hold of him. "Winter came for us before winter came. But now we have the north, and Sansa, and Bran…" Jon had to control himself, for he had almost slipped Daenerys' name. "I will not let monsters take them away from me. Life has more meaning than that."

"It does," the serving girl said. "You have fought the wildlings, you held the Wall and you won back our home. If there is one man in Westeros for whom my love and respect will never die, it is you. The lions roared, the vipers stung and the kraken rose from the seas, but now it is our turn, a time for wolves."

After they all left, a girl removed her face.


	13. Season 8 Episode 3

**1\. The Wall**

A girl felt nothing.

The north was colder than ever, its heavy winds stabbing through tripled layers of clothing. The walls of the inn gave some comfort, but it was now time to abandon them. When she went outside a girl was shivering, but her heart was still as stone.

They spoke about all she wished them to. Robb was avenged, Sansa was well, Bran was back. _Winter is here._ But not minutes ago, when Jon Snow had left for good, the she-wolf was alone again. For years she had imagined this moment, yet when it arrived it was lost, imperfect, and with it, came the recognition of lost love. The child in her sought it to happen, and when it did, she realized the child had died. _I wanted this,_ she tried to tell herself, as a girl went looking to purchase a garron, but who was she speaking to?

If anything, it proved that the job was done well. Five gifts were given to the Many-Faced God, as instructed. _Walder Rivers. Lothar Frey. Lord Walder. Tyrion Lannister. Arya Stark._

When the waters of Pyke rushed to meet her, a girl realized she was no cat. The plan was to escape to the shores by foot, not leap off a window and hope for the best. The fall had taken the breath away and threatened to take away her senses, but a girl survived. The rocks and the blackness of the night kept her in the shadows, safe from disinterested sentries.

When it was safe, a girl had snuck in the cave, where the body of the tavern wench lay. She had drowned two nights past, which a girl had found and kept hidden. The commands were clear. _Arya Stark must die._

Her hands passed across the dead girl's face with great care. She had been taught how to do it, but wearing was easier than placing. Minutes passed, then an hour. A girl was patient. Magic was worthless without human hands. When she was done, Arya Horseface stared back at her with empty eyes. Jaqen's work was, as expected, immaculate.

After the faces were traded, the body was released into calmer sea waters. Needle with it. _Arya Stark must die._

A girl traveled by ship when it was safe. She met with old men of the north, slept in abandoned keeps, ate at inns near Winterfell. She never felt one with the men.

By the time she had made it to Mole's Town, any hope of finding the dead girl was lost. Arya Stark had died. Arry was dead, Lanna and Mercy were dead, and there was no cat of the canals. She was no lone wolf, because she was no wolf. No one cared for her, and she cared for no one. A girl felt a tear, and she hastily wiped it away.

When she bought the garron, the old man in the stables tried to make conversation. He asked her where she was going. _To give a gift,_ she wanted to say. Five gifts were given to the Many-Faced God, but one remained. "When you're all the way north, there is only one way to go," she said instead.

**2\. Riverrun**

"You saved my life," he kept saying. "Now let me die."

The journey had sapped all the steel from Brienne. Yohn Royce's men were on the prowl, knocking down doors in search for the Blackfish, but the Riverlands would not give them up. She pushed the wayn carrying Ser Brynden across hamlets, and peasants and fishermen gave them asylum. The villagers tried to help Ser Brynden's leg, and gave ointments to the nasty scar on Brienne's shoulder, but when it was time to pass through the Whispering Wood, both wounds had opened again.

How they made it through the forest, Brienne would never know. They had run out of food, and cottages in the forest were absent because of the wolves. It was not long before they resorted to eating raw meat of dead animals and plucked berries. Thankfully, Ser Brynden told her which berries were poisonous in time. _If he wanted us to die, why did he do that?_

By the time they had crossed the woods, the Blackfish was thin and pale, lying on his wayn like he was part of it. Brienne, who had also lost her strength, decided they take shelter in an abandoned village near Riverrun. "I need to get my strength," she told Ser Brynden. "Then we can continue."

Brynden's chuckle was barely audible. "And how will you do that?" the pale lips spoke. "The food in this house will not last us a week. The wound on your shoulder has become worse. Face it, Brienne. We fought against fate, and we lost."

Brienne did not want to admit he was right. _Thinking about it will lead me to temptation._ "We go on," she said briefly.

The door opened.

Brienne stood suddenly, reaching for her sword. As her hand clasped around the hilt of Oathkeeper, a shot of pain reached her neck. She staggered. "Who goes there?" she said, as adrenaline coursed through frozen limbs. In that time, the man on the threshold of the door had not even moved.

"Your savior," the man said with a girlish chuckle.

The eunuch entered the room with no blade in hand, entirely indifferent to Brienne's stance. "Ser Brynden?" he told the man on the bed. "Would you like to have your home again?"

"Answer the lady," the Blackfish said gruffly. "Who the fuck are you?"

The eunuch's voice tightened. "Just a man who shadowed every movement of yours without moving a muscle. Just a man who knows Riverrun needs his rightful lord. More importantly, just a man seeking an alliance for the rightful queen of Westeros."

Brynden contemplated his words. Brienne's sword was still poised. As the light cleared, she saw a face that she half-recognized. _Was he not a member of the Small Council?_ "And what," Brynden said finally, "makes you think I want to be Lord of Riverrun?"

The man shrugged. "Mayhaps you do not," he said, signaling at the empty door. "But I suppose you do not want to deny your kin what is his by rights." As other armed men entered the cottage, Brienne heard the wails of a babe, and a woman carrying him.

The intensity in Ser Brynden's voice increased. "Roslin?" he said. "How did they find you?"

"With embarrassing ease," the man said. "For your sake, it is fortunate that we care for him as much as you do. The boy needs a father, Riverrun a lord and Queen Daenerys Targaryen an ally. We have the army to take the castle, but we need someone to keep it. Do you wish to volunteer?"

The Blackfish, seemingly, only needed a moment to think it over. "Brienne," he said, head turning in her direction, "I think it's time you be released from your vow."

**3\. Winterfell**

The fever had not passed, but Bran was tired of his sweaty bed. At his request, Maester Wolkan designed him a rolling chair and Meera took him to the godswood. The change in scenery was helping his sickness. Life was still here, the lake now frozen, but the weirwood tree looked as massive and imposing as ever, its branches disappearing into whiteness. "Leave me be," Bran told Meera, when he heard her chattering teeth. "I'm sure you have other things to do."

Bran's eyes stared deep into the weeping tree. The eyes were staring back at him. When Bran was a child, he worshipped the trees as gods, but the Three-Eyed Raven told him it was what remained of the children of the forest, who once spied through trees. The thought of an imprisoned soul fascinated Bran as much as terrified him. _I would weep too, if my soul was trapped in a tree,_ he thought, before he remembered. Warging into ravens and Hodor used to have its moments of fun, but one day, he was expected to do the same. He was cursed as heavily as he was blessed.

The soothing shelter of the tree soon put Bran to sleep. He dreamed he was bounding across the woods, leaving white paws in the snow. His mouth was bloody with recent prey. The pack smelled more, and they snuck to their quarry, him leading it. As the scent came closer, he found it to be familiar. His appetite dwindled the more he recognized it, the closer he came. _It is my master._

Bran awoke to shouts.

When his eyes opened, he saw Meera Reed and Maester Wolkan, along with few loyal men of Winterfell. They were all looking at his feet, and if not that, tugging at it. His legs were dead as dust and Bran felt nothing, but when his eyes went there, he saw the lone creeper of the weirwood twirled tightly around his toes.

The people tried to untangle the creeper from the foot. Bran was in panic. _The tree wants me, but I do not._

Eventually, Bran suggested they draw a sword and sever the creeper from its stem. They all turned to Maester Wolkan for advice, who, with no sense of knowledge, told them to go ahead. When the sword fell and the branches left him, to his horror, Bran realized that the fever had worsened.

**4\. King's Landing**

He led the line expecting a riot, but saw scared men make way for Lannister and Arryn.

"Maybe I misjudged my sweet sister," Jaime told himself. For a second, he was tempted to alter the course of his horse in the direction of the people, give them a wee fright. He scolded himself for such disagreeable thoughts, to look at the commonfolk as men rather than maggots, but it did not help. Fleetingly, he was reminded of the time his golden hand smashed the teeth of the commoner at Highgarden, and chuckles escaped his face. _Euron may have died, but his spirit lives on with me._

Littlefinger rode with him. He was saying something. It was probably something clever, but Jaime was not listening. There would be enough time listening to his commands when Cersei would name him Hand to the Queen. Jaime had no intention of chiding her sister on her unbelievably foolish decision of bringing the snake back to King's Landing. Let her be the largest roach in a kingdom of bugs, he thought, another unnatural chuckle coming to him.

It was eve by the time Jaime settled in the Red Keep. He had to get acquainted to the new faces. A mousy looking girl with hair of gold introduced herself as Mhaegen, in a dismissive tone that undermined her own name. Qyburn had been demoted to Master of Whisperers, and Tarly's son Dickon had reached King's Landing – he was to be named the new Commander of the City Watch after, what he now learned, with another dull thud of nothingness, the death of Bronn.

He had met all the members of the newly forming Small Council, but not Cersei. He did not know if he was avoiding her, or she him. The ceremony of making Petyr Baelish the new Hand was underway, but Jaime was in no mind to attend it. The ghosts of Tyrion, Bronn and the cunt of a kid with no teeth danced in his mind. _It has only been an eve, and I already want to fucking kill someone._

He found his sword and went looking for the tree in the godswood.

**5\. The Wall**

"I have done all I can," said Samwell Tarly, his eyes in Jon's direction, yet highly conscious of the beast besides. "Dragonbone is as strong as steel, and it heals quickly. All the wound needs now is exercise."

At Jon's earnest request, Sam had attended to the dragon from day to dusk. He knew it was, by far and away, their strongest weapon in the coming war, but that did not stop him from being petrified. "They are fickle, capricious beasts," Sam pleaded, when Jon had told him what was to be done. "If a flake falls on it the wrong way, it may in anger eat the fat man in front of him."

But Jon would have none of it. At most, he offered to stand with Sam as he treated the dragon, but that was it. Initially, Rhaegal growled and snapped at the sight of him, but it reduced in regularity as days passed. _No sudden movements,_ Sam repeated to himself, as his hands shivered only partly from the cold.

When he was done, Jon and Sam set to removing the feeble chains that held the dragon. Samwell insisted on it. "Rhaegal needs to spread its wings to heal quicker. He will be smart enough to know not to fly north of the Wall. Don't worry," he ended, smiling, "I'm not saying this because I want to be as far away from it as possible!"

Jon let loose an involuntary chuckle, for what seemed the first time in years. "I've missed you, Sam," he said, as Rhaegal flew away. "Best let lose all that wit before there's no time to," he ended, in a tone of rue.

"There will be enough time," Sam replied earnestly, continuing with a stream of encouragements. "We have a thousand men at Castle Black right now – that's many more than the time we faced Mance Rayder! Soon, six-thousand of your northern army will join us from Barrowton, and Queen Daenerys promised you a thousand-and-twenty men of the Reach, did she not?" Sam's voice grew stronger as he saw Jon's eyes lighten. "Edd even managed to mine the dragonglass at Skagos. We now have weapons of obsidian. And if all that were not enough, Jon, _we have a dragon!_"

"So do they," Jon replied, but in lesser duller tones than before. The message seemed to find the right ears. Sam persisted. "I could have fled from Oldtown with Gilly," he said, "but we came back because we know that we will survive this. Me, the most petrified person in this castle, thinks there is a chance!" Sam did not know how much he believed what he said, but now was no time for total honesty.

The horn tooted. For a second, Sam fretted that the Walkers were at the Wall, cruelly undercutting his sanguinity, but it was not so. "From the south," Jon said, as he moved to the tall doors at the rear of Castle Black's yard.

When the doors opened, Sam saw two men he did not recognize. "Greetings," the one on the left said, before Jon could ask who went there. An ugly black eyepatch dominated a heavily scarred face.

**6\. King's Landing**

"Where is the Targaryen bitch now?"

They were all there. Littlefinger the Hand was the first to arrive. Qyburn sat a few seats away, silently repenting his relegation of power. Mhaegen the Maiden shamelessly chewed her hair with eyes alert. Dickon Tarly looked lost among this company, beside whom sat, disinterested, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It was the first time, since he had left for Highgarden, that she and Jaime were in the same room.

Cersei Lannister had spared no time in calling for her first Small Council. The day after her army returned from the Twins, she had sent Qyburn to round them together. The old fool had quickly obliged, hoping to curry favor with his queen again. _You lost your chance, Qyburn,_ Cersei mused to herself, _but I will let you think you still have one._

It was Qyburn who responded to her question swiftly. "The last we heard," the Master of Whisperers said, "Queen Daenerys had crossed the Twins, but that was a long time ago. She may have reached close to Riverrun."

Qyburn's use of _queen_ to Daenerys irked her, but Cersei let it slide. She needed to be less impetuous. "How many men do we hold at Riverrun?"

"Ten-thousand strong, Your Grace." This time it was Littlefinger. "I say strong, but in truth Lord Yohn Royce has been left the weakest men Lannister and Arryn have to offer. We do not hope to defeat the Targaryen in the Riverlands, simply hold her. Perhaps we can cause their men damage, or her dragon."

Cersei nodded at the singular use of dragon. They had recently learned that, whatever the reason, the number of Daenerys' dragons had dwindled from three to one. "Good," she said, realizing in time what Littlefinger was doing. _He cannot escape with passing my orders as his wisdom._ "You have followed my instructions well, Lord Hand," she said pointedly, before turning to the commoner, who looked impatient. "Lady Mhaegen," she managed with great strain, "do you bring any news?"

"Oh, only from the people?" she replied with unrepentant causticness. Every word the whore spoke reminded Cersei of Olenna's vile mouth. "They are happy that House Arryn came with food and supplies," she said, "but the Righteous Seven need more. We wish for the faith to be recognized by the Crown, and to anoint a High Septon who will be chosen by the public."

For all her passion, Cersei found her demands feeble. "We understand your concerns," she said, desperately trying to give her the courtesy of language. "The Crown will consent to these terms. The Lord Hand will meet with your, _enthusiasts_, shortly to decide the finer details."

Mhaegen, seemingly satisfied, popped chewed hair back between her teeth. Littlefinger saw the silence as an opportunity. "You will be pleased to know, Queen Cersei," he said, "that negotiations for the hiring of sellsword companies have been successful. We have forty-five thousand Lannisters and five-thousand men of Arryn, and thanks to the Iron Bank, thousand-and-twenty men from the Windblown will be joining them."

Cersei inwardly grinned. She and Littlefinger had used the Tyrell coin for calling fifteen-thousand Windblown, not twenty. Him purposely misspeaking the number was confirmation of something they were privately hoping to secure. _The less men know of it in this chamber, the better._ "Great," she said, unable to suppress the smile longer. "I would love to see the look on the Dragon Queen's face when she reaches the walls of King's Landing."

"And what comes after?" a sudden voice came. It was Jaime.

"After?"

A malicious grin was playing on his lips. "After," he said calmly. "After the tens of thousands of maggots are killed. If we keep the throne, assuming her dragon does not char it to crumbs. What happens after?"

"Have you lost your wits?" Cersei said, struggling to keep her tone. "After, we rule."

"Rule," Jaime said slowly, letting the word hang in the cold air of the Small Council, as if the silence itself posed a question of its own: _and how will that look like?_

**7\. Riverrun**

He stood with his men on the northern ramparts of the castle, staring at nothingness. The mist had cleared somewhat, but not enough for the men to see the snowy grounds ahead of them. Those in high towers had a greater field of vision, and they were to signal the arrival of the enemy with toots. All men were in battle positions, ready, waiting for the toot, waiting for signs of life. If it were not for the maester, Yohn Royce would not know it was the middle of the day.

Of the eight scouts that they had sent, only one had returned. "They're all dead," he said softly, blood gushing where once was his left ear. The maester had done all he could to save his life, but Yohn knew there was no time. Thankfully, so did the scout. "They plan to take the castle," he revealed, lying down in sheets soaked in red.

Before the scout died, Yohn had already assembled his men in positions for battle. "A cruel Usurper comes to claim this land," he had told them, "but Riverrun is a great castle, and we great men. It has not been captured by conquest in a thousand years, and it will not fall today!"

As the men cheered, Yohn remembered asking himself if what he had said were true. _It probably was_, he told himself, ready, waiting for the toot. His ten-thousand men were outnumbered six-to-one by Daenerys' army, but they had massive stone walls and an unflinching fortress on their side. Riverrun was built where the Tumblestone met the Red Fork, and the castle had towers on all coasts, protecting them from attacks by land and sea.

_I had hoped for the Vale, but the fool Littlefinger gave me something better. If the Tully king could give Jaime Lannister's eighty-thousand men a night to forget, as will I._

Then they saw it.

The lights were bright, sharp and discordant against the greyness of the day. Yohn's eyes instinctively shut. When they opened, he realized that no one needed a signal from the high towers, when they had seen it set ablaze in front of their eyes. _The dragon._ Yohn had always been skeptical of the rumors. He felt like an unbeliever face to face with R'hllor.

The men shrieked in fright, but Yohn reminded them of their duties. "Nock!" he yelled, as the tower crumbled before their eyes.

As the men rushed to their positions, Yohn heard thousands of quick hooves charge in the direction of the drawbridge. _The Dothraki._

Yohn had purposely left the drawbridge open, hoping to lure the enemy. They had taken the bait, and it was now time to strike. He left his position and rushed in the interior of the castle. "Open the sluice gates!"

His best men were defending the portcullis Daenerys wished to open, but Yohn knew they would have to fight no longer. For in a matter of seconds, after the sluice gates were set free, water would fill in the pits surrounding Riverrun, turning it into an island and plunging the men on the threshold of the castle in icy cold river. Yohn had given the enemy's men a minute to test the portcullis – enough for ample men to gather, but not enough for the gates to fall.

But before the waters reached, Yohn heard the crack of gates giving way.

The castle shuddered slightly. Screams and shouts emanated from below. Yohn heard from under his feet the sound of sword and steel. _They broke the doors down in seconds!_

Fear gripped him, but Yohn pushed it deep inside himself. His hands curled tight around his sword. "Let's fight the fuckers!"

Yohn and the men upstairs sprinted to the bottom. Confidence grew in his belly gradually. Ever since Royce was named Warden of the Riverlands, all he had done was prepare for this battle. His best men were downstairs. They had ample space for cover. All manner of obstacles was placed against the gates. The few hundreds that had spilled inside the castle would soon perish within its walls.

When they reached, Yohn caught sight of rooms so inundated with bare-chested men, he would be forgiven for thinking they had strayed into Vaes Dothrak.

They had sliced through the men with ease. Arrows and _arakhs_ flew across the hall, finding their target lazily. The sound of a neigh alerted them to horses running amok, trampling over friend and foe. A small contingent remained guarding the stairwell from where he and others from upstairs came, but they were barely holding out.

In that moment, Yohn got to grips with how far removed his age had made him from war.

"Charge!" he told the men that had accompanied him from upstairs, while Yohn retreated up the stairs. He still had a final battalion of men on the northern ramparts, men whom he was standing with not long ago. It was his last throw of the dice. _The stairwell is narrow. If we stand against it, we can defend the passageway like we do the Bloody Gate._ Every screech of a dragon and moan of the dead impelled him to run faster. "Men!" he yelled, when he reached his destination. He stopped abruptly.

Where there were once hundreds, he saw only ash.

Every stench of smoke and shit he inhaled filled him with dread. _My trusted men._ Tears streamed down his cheeks like cold rivers as he, running from place to place, tried to discern his political rivals, his most loyal followers, his bastard brothers and his childhood mates from mounds of rubble.

It was astonishing the vacuum between Yohn and his outside surroundings, when mind had trapped him from any senses. If we were younger, fitter, or not lost in thoughts about the collaterals of war, he may have fled, or at least, heard the giant beast that returned from the skies. It was only a sharp blow on his back from what felt like a thousand talons which sailed him into the air that brought fright back to his senses. But by then, it was too late. He was flying, and then he was falling.

As he fell, Yohn felt the whipping wind numb the scars on his back, which lessened the pain but made him feel deader. He hoped to believe that, as a freezing river rushed to kiss him, his final thoughts were calm or poetic, and not the crushing realization of embarrassing defeat.

The waters around him forbade any space for breathing. Alone, lost in a sea of death, not knowing which way was up, Yohn gushed wind through his nose and followed the bubbles. As he reached closer to the light, waiting for him in the sky was fear itself.

Fire erupted through its face, dancing in his direction. It was cold, then it was hot, and then too hot.

**8\. Riverrun**

When it ended, dead men no one cared for were dragged to the top of the ramparts, whom Drogon feasted upon. Towers she had burned had now completely crumbled, a smoking heap on black snow. Banners of Arryn and Lannister were replaced with Targaryen and Tully. Maesters treated the injured within the castle's walls, blacker than Harrenhal's. Daenerys had done it. The mighty Riverrun bowed meekly before its queen, and her men had barely broken a sweat.

Varys stood beside her. He had rejoined her camp shortly before the battle began, and with him were Brynden the Blackfish, Roslin Frey and Edmure's babe. "I am extremely fortunate to have your services, Varys," Daenerys remembered telling him. She meant every word.

As the battle came closer to its end, she saw the smallfolk had gathered with an air of resignation. The Riverlands had been a bleeding ground since Gregor Clegane set foot on its soil, Varys had told her. "They see Riverrun change hands, and show up with broomsticks before they are sent to clean the castle."

When she went to face them, it was clear they were intrigued when saw the banners. Before she could address them, a man from the masses spoke. "Is this a cruel jape?" he asked tentatively, not wanting to incur the dragon's rage. "We know that King Edmure and the Blackfish are dead. The kraken swallowed them from the seas."

Another man was more aggressive. "The Tullys may be dead, but as long as I stand, they are not truly gone. If you thinking burning the banners before their eyes will win you obedience-"

Before he could finish, Daenerys gave a quick, audible clap. The man stopped short, worried if that was a signal for the dragon, not knowing it was for Missandei. Upon the sound, she came into clearer view, in her arms a sniffling child, and beside her on a hobbling cane the Lord of Riverrun.

As the crowd rallied behind their new lord and queen, she was reminded of the time Slaver's Bay hailed her as their mother, of why she wished to be queen. The winds were howling in their ears, and with it they brought sounds. "The best chance of peace and prosperity stands before me," Jon Snow's words spoke in her ears, and Daenerys Targaryen suddenly felt a much worthier mate for the King on the Wall.


	14. Season 8 Episode 4

**1\. King's Landing**

The paintings were still polished. Targaryens stared down at her with consistent arrogance. The dragon skulls looked rusty as ever. Many of the handmaidens she had known were gone, but the new ones looked nearly identical. In fact, all that seemed to have changed since Sansa Stark left the lair of liars were the liars themselves.

Ghost followed her wherever she went, which meant few members of court felt enamored to approach her. Since her arrival, Sansa had spent most of her time alone. Littlefinger was busy with matters of the state, and Brienne still on her mission at Riverrun. She had been insistent to stay with her, especially after the vow she had made at the Eyrie, but Sansa was equally adamant. "I will not leave the fate of another Tully out of my control," she had told her, and that was that.

Being alone suited Sansa. At the present moment, Cersei was too busy warring with Daenerys to try to use her as pawn. But even if she had the time, Sansa would make it certain that would not happen. Her time at and away from the capital had given her great ideas. It was time to put them to practice.

Sansa found him at the godswood. She made it seem like she had stumbled by accident, but she had already seen the Kingslayer sneak there with his sword the night before. "Oh, I'm sorry, Ser Jaime," she said pointedly, when their paths crossed among the cold woods. "I thought you would be at the Small Council."

Jaime sheathed his sword upon her arrival, but his countenance did not look sheepish. "Of course not. I do not wish to attend another minute of that mummer's farce from people who do not know what war really is. They do not know the harsh truths," he said. Sansa felt joy in her heart._ I thought he would take greater persuasion, but the man is practically begging to be heard._

"And what are the harsh truths?" was all she had to say for Jaime to launch into a tirade of tales about what it meant to be a warrior and commander. Sansa listened with wide, innocent eyes, with exclamations at the right moments, giving him the attention his sister did not. She felt pity when Locke severed his arm, and disgust when Jaime's golden hand broke the teeth of the Highgarden boy, but she shrugged away emotions the moment she felt them.

It did not matter if she liked Jaime or not, as long as he felt heard. Brienne had told her enough about the Kingslayer to know that for him, ideas connected more than power or profit. "I am very sorry to have misjudged you, Ser Jaime," she ended their conversation, with such weight in her voice it would have fooled Lady Margaery.

Sansa went back to her chambers feeling optimistic. She had thought Jaime would be the hardest to persuade, but he was practically a babe in man's clothing. Her first battle she had won with ease, but it would be complacent to stop there.

When she reached her chambers, one of her guard was replaced by Brienne. She had grown so thin Sansa barely recognized her until she spoke. "Lady Sansa!" she told her urgently, the moment she saw her, but Sansa hushed her with her hands, pointing to the walls. _They may be listening._ "Was I right?" she said quietly.

Brienne tried to keep her calm, but her lips curled slightly when the nod came.

**2\. Meereen**

By the time Euron Greyjoy met his mate, his body was a smoking ruin.

His empty eye wept profusely through its patch. At times the blood was black. His left hand was unaffected, but the scale had spread from his right fingers to his arm. On his face, scars were lesser visible than the dark blue veins, climbing from neck to cheek. Shade of the evening held permanent lust over his senses, and he saw three Daario's than one. The last the Crow's Eye remembered sensing were the pangs of hunger, when their supplies were over but Meereen no closer. The taste of Cragorn was still on his lips.

Euron knew that for Naharis to recognize the thin, gaunt man in front of him, all he had to do was speak. "Friend," he said, grinning through blue teeth, before he saw Daario's smile of recognition. "Euron," he replied. "You look better than the last time I saw you."

"Aye," Euron chuckled. "The less said about the past, the better. I don't believe I need to tell you why I come here. You know why. The real question is: what kept you?"

Daario's smile never left his lips, but Euron had a sense that he was deeply uncomfortable with confiding. "A moment of weakness, you may call it," he said. "I was reminded of what would happen to the people of Meereen should I abandon it. A reckless ruin, perhaps," Daario said. For a second, it seemed like the wistful sense of rue and regret would wrap him, but then the casual shrug came. "Not that I care."

"If you don't," Euron said, sneering, "why did you not come sooner?"

Daario's smile vanished. He suddenly looked grimmer. "Maybe I was waiting for the right chance. I do not fight a war I cannot win. I have received opportunities, but conscience held me back. But I believe the gods have sent me a good omen," he said, smile returning. "Is that what I believe it is?" He pointed at the horn.

"You would be right," Euron said. "That is payment for your services." He licked his lips hungrily. "Do you consent?" he said, knowing the answer.

But Daario surprised him. "Ah, Euron," he said. "Once, maybe. You were a great warrior and a good friend, but look at yourself. You have nothing to offer me but empty promises." His eyes caught the dragonbinder. "I will not forget your gift," he said, "but alas, my friend, there will be no trouble forgetting you."

When his fingers snapped, the Second Sons crept behind him like Faceless Men. Euron's senses had dulled beyond hope, which meant the swords felt like needles. It was only when he fell did he realized how badly his body craved the rest.

**3\. King's Landing**

Qyburn did not stop. When Cersei ignored him in corridors, he pursued her till Gregor Clegane frightened him away. He sent letters when she told him she was too busy. She had avoided the old fool for as long as possible, but after a while, it was time to put petty suspicions aside and give him the time. _I wonder when that will happen with Jaime._

As they went deeper into the dungeons, the glint in the Master of Whisperer's Eye grew brighter. "You will not regret this, Your Grace," he kept saying in fervent voices.

"You better hope not, Lord Qyburn," she replied. Her moods were getting increasingly fickle when the Small Council was informed of the Dragon Queen's capture of the Riverlands. "The Roast of Riverrun, they're calling it," Dickon Tarly said in awed voices, clearly not reading the room. Cersei had anticipated that Riverrun would be sacked, but the manner of her victory filled her with rage. _Not fright, rage._

"And where the fuck did the Blackfish come from?" she remembered demanding from her Lord Hand. "I thought you killed him at the Twins!" To which the sneaky worm's astute reply came, "I apologize, Your Grace, but it was Ser Jaime Lannister who commanded the forces. Mayhaps you can ask him," he said, full well knowing she would not.

The Roast of Riverrun had kept Cersei Lannister dangerously on edge. Qyburn exhibited fear in every other sentence, while Dickon awe. Littlefinger was always not trustworthy, but he now seemed a lot less useful. Mhaegen harped on about the ethics of war, and it was not until Cersei casually hinted at Ser Gregor did she watch her tongue.

But it was Jaime's shows of disinterest that worried her. "We shared a womb, came into this world together," Cersei remembered telling that pious cunt Ned Stark with pride, a memory now poison in her veins. The only words they now exchanged were jabs in Small Councils. But Cersei would not break first. _He dare not leave me. He ought to come back, and apologize on bended knee._

Qyburn's journey into the Red Keep's bowels took an abrupt halt. He lit a fire. "This is only one, Your Grace, but I have ten more in the making," he said, when the darkness fled to reveal the giant crossbow. "If you would stand aside."

Cersei now saw what the ballista was pointed at. "Balerion?"

Qyburn nodded. "The dragon died around two hundred years ago, and its skull has been weakened by the sands of time, but it is the best measure of the threat we are against."

When Cersei moved aside, Qyburn worked at the rear of the ballista. While he did, he spoke. "It has been long said that the weakest spot of a dragon is its gullet. I disagree. I have been studying the skulls of dragons whenever possible, and surprisingly, they seem more alike to humans than we would think. As such, if I try to fire arrows into the dragon's forehead or chest, I am met with little success."

He pulled down a lever, and among the stale air of the dungeon, a swift wind flew. When Cersei looked, the bow in the ballista had gone, and was deep into the eye of Balerion, stretching to where his brain would have been. "Ten is too less," she said shortly.

**4\. Winterfell**

The fever had taken hold of him again, but this time Bran stayed in his chambers. Every time he blinked, he felt how hot his eyes were, and even though Wolkan gave him essence of nightshade to ease his sleep, the green dreams were still there.

Tonight, Bran woke to see Meera beside him. "You were screaming in your sleep," she said. "Are you sure there are ice dragons north of the Wall?"

"Was that what I was shouting?" he asked, to which Meera nodded. It was true. The visions were clearer, more striking and frequent, to the point where he had to confront the truth of its existence. But that was not what Bran dreamt of tonight.

_Scores of men in black motionless in the snow. Blood steaming in the cold._

He did not tell Meera, but the moment she left, Bran felt the fright take hold. Winter was truly upon them, and he ought to do whatever he could, but he did not wish to become one with the weirwood, withering away his life like the Three-Eyed Raven.

Bran tried to shut his eyes, to become an eye or a sword at the Wall, but the bodies pushed him away. A sense of urgency filled him, the sense that time required his interference. _Why did the gods choose me?_ he thought desperately. _I wanted my legs to heal, to win summer tourneys and marry a beautiful woman, not warg into ravens among grass and trees._ Why could magic not help him the way he wanted it to?

Bran missed his family. After Rickon had left them, he had only seen them in visions and premonitions. "Why did you leave me?" he whispered to the winds and walls. By simply thinking about them, Bran could know where they were, but that did not make him feel closer. Jon Snow was at the Wall, Sansa somewhere in King's Landing, Father and Mother dead, Robb, Rickon, Arya…

_Arya…_

The Wall had needed Bran, but the moment he knew, the boy in him took over.

He was bounding across the woods, leaving white paws in the snow. His mouth was bloody with recent prey. The pack smelled more, and they snuck to their quarry, him leading it. As the scent came closer, he found it to be familiar. His appetite dwindled the more he recognized it, the closer he came.

_It is my master._

**5\. The Wall**

Every breath hurt, as did each blink, but the fires kept them alive and laughing. The top of the Wall was the coldest it had ever been, and were it not for the kindly men, they surely would have died of frostbite.

They all sat huddled, close to the burning flames of the sword, too hungry for its warmth to question its magic. "Thanks be to the gods for this," Samwell Tarly said, arms stretching across his shoulders, rocking himself to let blood circulate within.

The guest who called himself Thoros of Myr simply chuckled. He looked completely at ease with the weather. "There is only one god to thank," he said simply.

Tormund Giantsbane roared with laughter, voicing what Jon Snow said to himself. "All you fire priests are the same," he said. "The way you go on about your _lord of light_, anyone would think him a boy that kisses your member every night."

"Aye," reiterated Jon Snow. "But I'm not complaining. If the Lord of Light sent you, he did good work. If only Rhaegal was here. Gods know where he flies when he does."

Before Thoros could correct him, Beric Dondarrion spoke. "I still wish to see this dragon of yours," he said. "Thoros and I have seen betrayals, resurrections and swords with fire. I believe a dragon is all that is left to finish our journals!"

"A journal?" Samwell said, interested. Whilst the others snickered, he seemed the only one who thought Beric spoke truly. Jon and the others guffawed at his foolishness again, and suddenly the days felt much warmer, their bottoms less wet, men much merrier. Every moment they had, knew Jon Snow, could not be spent waiting for men from Barrowton to arrive, worrying about ice dragons, or whether their society would end the next day.

Thoros of Myr suddenly stood, and with it, the flames of Beric's sword dissolved. "What did you do that for?" Tormund said harshly. Thoros ignored him. His eyes pierced through the white vapors, into the deeper recesses of the Haunted Forest. His lips moved slowly, cautiously. "I feel a chill," they said. "I never feel a chill."

A second later, they heard the sound of racing footsteps. "King Jon!" they spoke with urgency. "They're here! _They're here!_"

Jon's eyes jumped to the skies, expecting the winds of fire or ice to hit them, paralyzing or charring them, but all he saw was raining snow. _No Rhaegal, no Viserion_. The footsteps came closer, and Elron's voice with it. He caught the stench of urine. "_They're here!_" he kept saying. "I see them, they're in the Haunted Forest!"

Jon looked where Thoros was, where everyone now did, with eyes pale and panicked. Thousands of sharp blue eyes stared back at them as if, through the mists and the blizzard, they knew exactly where their prey stood. Jon felt their gaze pierce through his eyes, into his heart, searching for fear, and feasting on it. His hands quivered. _We only have a thousand men._

Elron was still yelling. "_They're here! They're here!_" he yelled from the top of the Wall to anyone who would hear. Jon let loose some of his fear by yelling at him. "Well then, toot the horn thrice, you bloody fool! And wake the Lord Commander!"

By now, Castle Black was chaos. He heard the sounds of shrieks from below him. Patrolling men ran with no meaning or purpose, some slipping against slick ice and falling on the other side of the Wall. Jon took charge. "Samwell!" he yelled. "Get the dragonglass weapons from the armory! Tormund, you have the Wall! If you see an ice dragon, get to safety!" He turned to briefly found friends. "Beric, Thoros, with me!"

"Where are we going?" Beric said.

_To guard the gate_, he thought, dread sneaking up his spine like snakes.

They got to the lift cage, which moved at ferocious speed to bring them to the bottom. As Jon reached closer to the courtyard, he saw Dolorous Edd coming out of his chambers, trying to organize the chaos. He had assembled a squad at the gates, and shut the rear end of the castle so that the Night's Watch could not escape. It had to be done. _Most of them were at Hardhome,_ Jon remembered. _The first thought on their minds will be to flee._

A dozen men led by Jon sprinted through the snaking interiors of the Wall until, midway through, they reached the bars of the middle gate blocking their way. Through the bars, they could see the outer gates, gates to the Lands of Always Winter, gates separating men from monsters.

Thousands stared at them with eyes empty. Tormund was throwing rocks and arrows of fire from above, but the impact was minimal. The outer gates were tightly barred, as were the middle gates, but the number of wights they saw on the other side made them seem flimsy.

Among the masses, Jon saw two men on horseback.

"There!" he told his mates. "The White Walkers!" Tormund Giantsbane looked puzzled. "There are only two," he said. "And none of them is the Night King. What is going on?" Tim Stone shared the same concerns. "Is the Night King testing our defenses?" he said aloud. "Is that why there is no dragon?"

There was no time to think. When he saw the men on horseback raise their scepters and point at the gate, he had to worry about what came next. "They are going to try to break through!" he said, a second before all the wights charged. As they saw them sprint towards to the gate, he wondered how these weak men could penetrate bars of cold-rolled steel, when even wildling giants had struggled.

They didn't. Instead, the moment they touched the gates, they exploded into shards of ice.

There was stunned silence. "They cannot pass," Tormund broke it. "The fuckers… cannot _pass_." As more and more wights shattered in front of them, the moods of the others became increasingly celebratory. Beric was actually dancing with joy. "If Brandon the Builder were alive," he said as the wights kept hitting the gates unrelentingly, "I would get down on my knees and suck his huge cock!"

Then Jon saw it.

The Wall was ice and magic fused together. Any wight or White Walker who touched it would turn to smithereens in an explosion so sheer, the snow they stood on flew with it. If one wight burst, the effect was little, but if tens did together, all before a gate not nearly equipped to keep out a legion of the army of the dead…

_No_, he thought, as he heard the gates crack open.

**6\. King's Landing**

Flea Bottom seemed to give the Righteous Saviors a twisted sense of superiority. Its cracked, sooty walls, the smell of shit and urine, cheapskate commerce and sparsely clothed populace all contrasted with the architecture and manner of the Red Keep. As Mhaegen led Sansa Stark, Brienne of Tarth and Petyr Baelish through its winding, narrow streets, Sansa caught an odd smile on her wrinkly lips. It was as if she were gaining increasing confidence, strolling in the battlefield of her choice.

They sat in a house that looked abandoned, before Sansa realized the broken furniture were actually people in grey garbs, huddled in prayer. She inwardly grinned at Cersei's way of dealing with the Faith Militant. _Why destroy a religion when it brings a newer, darker one?_

Littlefinger spoke first. "We are here to discuss the election of the High Septon for the Righteous Saviors of the Seven," he said, "but I would like to share something in confidence. Queen Cersei will agree happily with formalities as such, but this will not win you power or profit. You need to be smarter, you need more influence. Allow me to help."

Mhaegen met his offer of help with a sneer. "And why would you want to help us?"

"Because I wasn't born princess of Casterly Rock," Littlefinger said. "I come from nothing, like you. I understand what it is to be downtrodden. I insisted to Queen Cersei to delegate matters of the people to me. I made you my priority, because I believe I can help."

For the next hour, when they discussed the Righteous Seven and the streets of the Crownlands, Littlefinger offered more than promises. He gave them a bag of gold dragons that would help fund the religion. He offered plans to spark commerce in the city. He was calm, patient and 'eager to represent the Crown the best way he could'.

Mhaegen was still not convinced with his words. "I will consider your offers," she said shiftily. "I wish to speak to the girl now. You may leave."

Littlefinger seemed slightly abashed by the slander, but he left with a courteous bow, leaving Sansa and Brienne. When he was away from earshot, Mhaegen turned to her. "Should I trust him?"

It was time for Sansa Stark to reveal her hand. She chose her words carefully. "If you are who I think you are," she said, "I think you are beyond trusting him. I suppose we must stop this farce and speak openly. How did a woman of Littlefinger's brothel rise to the Small Council, and why does she shout about the Righteous Seven when, in fact, she whispers about The Promised Prince?"

The amount of information she knew clearly shocked Mhaegen the Maiden. Her chewed hair fell to her side limply, all character forgotten, as she wondered what her next move would be.

Sansa congratulated herself for winning two on two. She had sent Brienne to confirm what she had already known. When Joffrey had executed the bastards of Robert Baratheon, he had bragged about butchering a babe from the arms of Littlefinger's wench. _Mhaegen_. In addition, Sansa had seen the pictures of the Prince that was Promised all around Flea Bottom, and had listened to Melisandre's prophecies too long.

"You don't trust Littlefinger," Sansa said, as Mhaegen seemed unable to speak. "Trust me. I ask you as a woman who was betrothed to that cunt Joffrey, who has been raped and defiled, who actually understands what you speak of." She extended her hand. Mhaegen took it. _Ideas connect people more than power or profit._

"Great," she said. "This is what I have to offer."

**7\. The Wall**

When he left Gilly in the room, bolting it from outside and telling her to do the same within, Samwell Tarly realized how terribly alone he was. "There's no time for that," he had told himself, as he sprinted to the armory and gathered the dragonglass, trying to find reasons to be hopeful, finding none.

However, when Sam stood at a corner of the courtyard, handing weapons of obsidian to anyone who came his way, there was for a brief moment the sound of shatters, followed by cheers from the tunnel. It was in that moment he felt the hope seep back into his blood, realizing it could be as fierce an epidemic as fear. "The Wall was built with strong magic," Sam whispered the words from Oldtown, making him smile, filling him with hope. A beautiful lie.

It was now Jon Snow, leading the pack that retreated from the snaky tunnel, who was yelling. _They're here. They're here._

The wights leaked through the Wall like cold water from ice. Their screeches filled the air. Sam nervously held a bodkin of obsidian. His hands were shivering, but thankfully the cold meant they could not be sweaty enough for the dagger to slip between his fingers.

Sam was at a farther corner of Castle Black, away from the tunnel, away from the fighting. The men were positioned against the tunnel, but the wights had broken through the lines of defense. Then came the two White Walkers on horseback.

It was a massacre. Even those who had dragonglass in hand forgot to use them when they saw the monsters charge. The blizzard prevented him from sight, but not from the shrieks of dying men. Sam kept a tentative hand in front of him, retreating further into his corner. _Please don't come near._

Fire broke ice.

Up in the distance, Samwell Tarly saw the shape of a dragon, roaring flames on the other side of the Wall. "Rhaegal!" he shouted, to no one in particular. The dragon made sure no more wights tried to pass the gates. All that were left to destroy were the ones in the courtyard. _We're saved… for now._

A figure ran his way. Sam yelled, and tried to throw the dagger in the way of the silhouette. It only slightly missed Beric Dondarrion. "I need dragonglass, Sam!" he yelled without preamble. "Now!" Sam turned to his corner, where daggers and swords were laid out on a cloth. He forced his mind to click. _Dragonglass, yes. You can do this._ His hand rashly plunged into the cloth, and Sam felt blood spill. His finger had recklessly scraped against a sword. Hand still stinging, he grabbed the hilt and turned.

Beric Dondarrion had fallen, and behind him was a blue man beside a dead horse.

Without thinking, Sam swung the sword in its direction. His fingers were sweaty enough for it to slip. The White Walker looked at the sword, fallen near Beric's body, and then at him. Sam closed his eyes. He did not want the last image of his life to be the force of death and its lifeless horse.

When the spear slipped between his belly, Sam first felt the warm liquid dribble down his body. Then came the pain, making him fall. The tears forced his eyes open. He was flat on his chest, senses failing. Beside him lay Beric. Blood gushed through his mouth, but Beric's eyes were alert. His hand was on the sword.

Dondarrion's arm moved like the wind. Samwell felt the shards of ice rain upon him. He heard the shattering echo around Castle Black. He did not know if it was because of the falling senses, but all he heard were Dondarrion's last breaths, right beside his ear.

He tried to think of last words, but his mind drowned into silence sooner than he thought.

**8\. The Riverlands**

Westeros was as freezing as ever, but the woods gave her solace from the winds. When eve approached, no one lit a fire. The warmth of the flames was a huge source of comfort. She felt herself doze, sleepily hoping that she would not wake to watch the woods aflame.

She stood, alert, borrowed sword in hand. "Who goes there?" she said, turning upon herself, as the soft crunching of leaves came closer. When they finally approached, she realized they were not men.

A pack of wolves were glaring down at her. They had surrounded her from all sides. _Is this how I am to die?_ she thought, staring into the eyes of the leader of the pack.

Arya blinked, and blinked again.

"Nymeria?"

The direwolf came closer, but she felt no fear now. She held a tentative hand forward, and Nymeria's head bowed slightly, as if wanting her master to pat her. She was about to, but the hand froze in mid-air. _Come with me girl,_ she wanted to say, but she did not. She did not let her fingers touch the furs.

Instead, a girl sheathed her sword. She walked away from the direwolf, gathered her things, and left. She heard the wolves howl behind her when she walked, but she forced herself to not look behind. Arya Stark was dead.

_You have the wolf blood in you,_ a voice in her said, but she shunned it. Even if the real Arya, she allowed herself to think, hid underneath the shrouds she wore for years, it was too broken to return to. Arya Stark was a heap of broken images, with no parent, brother or friend. She could not be Arya. She could not even have a name.

All she could do was fight and kill.

**9\. The Wall**

When Dondarrion had slayed the White Walker, with him had shattered all the other wights, bringing an abrupt end to the battle. Jon Snow had killed the other at the gates, before being forced to flee with his men. Their interventions, as well as Rhaegal's, had come just in time. The battle had cost them half their men, and if it had lasted an hour longer, they would all have perished. _All that with only a fraction of the Night King's army._

He thought his friends had survived, but that was before they found Beric. "He might still be alive," Jon Snow said urgently. "We need Sam," he asked, before he saw the body beside.

Jon always imagined that if someone he cared for was a victim of the war, passivity and silence would pervade his senses, preventing words from his mouth, arresting his limbs. He did not anticipate the surge of rage that made him punch Sam's broken body. "Get up," he kept saying. "You told me there would be enough time."

Dolorous Edd had taken charge. He was doing the best he could. He had ordered the tunnel filled with ice. Rangers went around collecting shards of obsidian in the bloody snow. Stewards tended to those wounded at the top, of which there were few, and the courtyard, of which there were several.

He even heard Edd speak with Thoros. "The Night King will attack us soon, but we don't know if the men from Barrowton will be here yet," he was saying. "I know it sounds silly, but instead of burning the dead, can you… work your Lord of Light magic on these corpses, see if anyone's destiny can be changed?"

But it was worth nothing, Jon knew. The fall of man was near. Rhaegal was perched atop the Wall, a potential weapon against the Night King, but he would not be enough. The White Walkers had a dragon too, and many more men. _The war where ice will freeze fire_, Jon mused in his mind. _Would have been a tale worthy of telling were the bards not like to die._

Apart from Dolorous Edd, there was another who tried appearing cheery. "At least we know the Wall has magic," Thoros of Myr said bravely. "And who knows, maybe the Lord of Light will permit me to raise some of these poor souls. Starting with this man," he pointed at Beric. "This will, what, be the eighth time I rise him from the dead?" He chuckled at the skeptical faces beside him.

While Thoros muttered his incantations, Jon looked at him feeling contempt. _Fie this fool_, he thought, _looking to poison our souls with hope._ He was not sobbing like Gilly, but felt a greater loss in him, the loss of hope in humanity, the loss of life. He thought the last shreds of belief had detached from his self, mingling into the mist, never to return. But he was wrong.

The last shreds parted when he saw the pale, stricken face of the red priest, when he realized that his one-eyed friend had gone for good, never to wake.


	15. Season 8 Episode 5

**1\. Winterfell**

Scores of men in black lay motionless in the snow. Blood steamed in the cold.

Even when Bran woke, the image had not left his eyes. The fever had meant Meera was at his bedside day and night. When he saw her concerned face, he felt at once a spoilt kid, yet at the same time wanting to be pampered, for his guilts to be hugged away.

"What happened?" she asked his ashen face, hoping the rumors were not true.

He struggled for words to escape him. "Yes, there was a battle," the pale lips finally moved. "The army of the dead. The true enemy. The Night's Watch. Samwell Tarly…" Bran's speech was quick and bordering on gabble, but Meera caught enough words to understand what had happened.

Since the day a villager from Mole's Town had sought asylum, Winterfell was abound with rumors. Some claimed the wall of ice had fallen. Others, that Jon Snow was slain and people awaited his resurrection. The fear that White Walkers would descend upon them was such, that Lyanna had ordered curfews and strict patrolling from the four-thousand soldiers in the castle. No one had known what to believe.

"Speak clearly, Bran." He did not know if Meera's voice was urgent or pleading. "How many are alive? Where is the Night King? Has Jon… fallen?"

Bran recounted what he could. He kept the details as brief as he could, for he kept slipping into skins as he spoke. Twice, he was at Winterfell, talking to Meera, while being in the Riverlands. _I could have stopped it_, he kept telling himself, _but I was too craven. I ignored my destiny, wanting to get a glimpse of my lost sister._

Bran heard Meera's voice quiver. "You could have stopped it?" she said, and Brandon Stark realized he had said aloud what he thought was secure in his mind.

"I had a… premonition," he said shakily, confronting his guilt. "If I had taken aid of the weirwood, then maybe I could have saved some…" his voice drifted away, as Meera Reed's face became uncharacteristically harsher.

At first, she had turned to leave, but Meera then seemed to decide otherwise. "I said nothing," she told him, "when Hodor and Summer died for us, nor when you sowed the seeds of poison in the Mad King's mind. Now you are healthy and whole, or as healthy and whole as a cripple can be, under a roof where maesters feed you milk of the poppy if you scar your shin. You cannot rule – hells – you cannot even fucking stand, but you have everything you need to save the realm." Her eyes glistened angrily, two dirty chips of ice. "Why won't you?"

Meera's words had, for once, kept Bran solidly in the now. He tried to justify himself, but couldn't find his tongue. "I…"

"Jojen knew," she said. "The Three-Eyed Raven had told us, do you remember? He knew what would happen, from the moment he left, and he came with us anyway. He sacrificed himself for… for what?" She looked at him, trying to hide the disgust in her eyes. "Maybe _he_ should have had the power," she said, before she left him.

The boy had wanted a hug, or vague validations for not touching the weirwood tree, but instead was given another reminder of the uncompromising stance of duty, and its consequences when ignored.

**2\. The Riverlands**

The Inn at the Crossroads was as packed as she had seen it. The eyes of many were filled with joy as they tipped their attendants with gold dragons, drinking to the health of Lord Brynden the Blackfish. "To Queen Daenerys, First of Her Name!" they shouted as well, as goblets clinked and ale spilled.

She only had ears for the underbellies, of rumors of war at the Wall, but talk was less here than at other inns. She had spotted Hot Pie among the staff, but made no move to call out to him. Her face was still of Arya's, but it had grown and scarred beyond recognition. _There was a time when I thought Gendry and Hot Pie were my pack_, she thought, the drink almost squirting from her lips in amusement.

"Will you stop those bloody toasts, you miserable cunts?" a gruff voice came from a corner of the room, unheard in the din but to her. The figure was hooded, but Arya had no trouble recognizing the voice. She felt her feet walk towards the hooded man. "You?" she said silently, incredulously, when she sat on the bench opposite.

The Hound's black eyes looked at her with equal surprise. "How…?" the syllable leaked from his burned lips, before he regained his tone. "Looks like the little wolf bitch cheats death as well as I do," he said, suppressing the smile.

**3\. The Wall**

Eleven-thousand men arrived to silence and resignation. By the time Davos Seaworth and the army had made it, he had lost the feeling in his right limbs. Maester Avery had told him that would have been more or less unavoidable – the dragonfire had stung him partly, but it was enough to cause permanent damage to his right hand and leg. He had hobbled to the north, at times been carried by men on wayns, but he was finally here. _I wonder what Marya will think when she sees me so,_ Davos mused, realizing he had not thought of his wife for almost a year.

Davos had assumed Jon Snow would open the gates, but it was Dolorous Edd. "Finally," he said with an odd high-pitched voice Davos never remembered him for. "Time to make the White Walker fuckers deader than they already are," he said cheerily, while other men looked at him with eyes gloomy. Behind Edd, Davos had noticed the massive dragon, whose scales Jon was passing fingers over. His back was to them, and even though the army had made enough din to wake people in the Arbor, he did not turn to greet them.

_There will be time to deal with this,_ Davos told himself, not wanting to go close to a dragon after what happened at Barrow Hall. Instead, he spoke with Edd. "We have a huge problem," he told him. "We had marched from Barrowton with twenty-six thousand men. Six-thousand were Jon's northmen and twenty-thousand were men of the Reach, sent by Queen Daenerys."

Edd's false smiles vanished, as he saw the soldiers behind went to take their lodgings in the castle. "Fuck me," he said. "Tell me the rest have been held back by the blizzard."

"That would have been good news," Davos said. "But when the rumors of the attack spread, some Tyrell men fled." He paused. "About fifteen-thousand."

Jon Snow suddenly wanted to give Davos his attention. "I wonder what we did for the gods to hold us in such spite," he said aloud. "I have tried to live up to the vows of the Watch, to the values of my father, and what did that bring me? A lost family, fallen friends, and an undefeatable enemy." He turned to Rhaegal, but he was still speaking. "I once thought this dragon was a beast," he said. "But when death stares at you, tapping your shoulder, suddenly you realize how beautiful the living are."

The resigned, rueful state of him took Davos aback. "How much of the rumors were true?" he asked them, dreading the answers.

**4\. King's Landing**

His bitch sister's mouth moved, and sounds came with it. "Gilbert Farring is dead," they said to the Small Council. "The Sand Sluts killed him."

As the chokingly eloquent Littlefinger and the parrot Qyburn mumbled grave condolences, it took Jaime Lannister a full minute for him to recall who Gilbert Farring was. "The Lord of Storm's End," he said, more to himself than his darker side. "So, the Dornishmen are close as well?"

"Yes," his darker side replied. Her eyes refused to meet Jaime's, but when he saw them, there was no mistaking it. They were similar when the Stark boy had scaled the roof, when Joffrey choked on his wine. She was in fear, fear that made her crazier than she was, fear that was yet to find him.

Jaime tried to force it. "A Targaryen is at our doorstep," he kept thinking to himself, "the daughter of the king you slew," but his heart replied with hollow reverberations, and the words he told himself remained words. "And what of the threat at the Wall?" he said aloud to the Council, hoping if they expressed fear, some of it would settle in him. "The rumors, if they are, are legendary. Do you believe the White Walkers are real? Do you believe in the Prince and the Dragon?"

Littlefinger, this time, was more direct. "From my time at Winterfell, I do not doubt there is truth to the tale, although not certain of how much," he said, "but there is only so much we can do. One army at a time, Lord Jaime," he said, lips almost curling, reminding Jaime how much he loved to play this game.

Jaime had already known the Red Keep was a cave of lepers, but he had cast them no heed until now. His talks with Sansa had made him realize how much he truly hated them: the squirmy Hand, the old whisperer fool who licked the hand which fed it, the clueless Commander of the City Watch, and ruling them all the bitch whom the gods made one face, yet she went and made herself three more.

"I promised myself I would never be like them," Jaime remembered telling Sansa, "but I became someone worse. I became the man who shrugged at violence, turned a blind eye to betrayals. Giving Brienne of Tarth liege to save you was the only thing I am proud of. Hopefully, it will be a thing the bards will note me for. That, and being the Kingslayer."

Sansa had listened with eyes wide, patient and delicate. The poor girl had nothing better to do while war approached, and Jaime had taken advantage of her ear to spill his sins. He had still not told her of darker days, of the Mad King's plan or the day he pushed Bran. The former was too delicate, and the latter would risk losing company of the only woman in the Red Keep with one face.

Whenever he met Sansa in the godswood, Jaime always saw the silhouette of Brienne, distant enough to give the pair privacy, but close enough to see her swollen, impassioned face. He had greeted her courteously when they met, but as their conversation progressed, Jaime felt a wall bigger than the Wall between them. He had particularly felt it when Brienne had asked, "So, how fare things since we parted?"

_Not much. Still the same man with shit for honor._

When the Council ended, Jaime got up to meet with the lieutenants of the Windblown sellsword company, whom had arrived in the capital. When he left the room, however, there she stood, still not staring at him, but plainly longing to talk. "Speak," he told her, the word coming harsher than he thought it would.

Her eyes still did not meet his, but Jaime saw Cersei's body seize at his imperative. "It is of no significance," she said to the air shortly, with grinding teeth and sweaty skin, before she shuffled away to her chambers.

_Did it take the white walls of Riverrun to turn black for her to remember that the enemy has a dragon?_ Jaime thought to himself, finally feeling a brief upsurge of joy.

**5\. Rosby**

As they traveled, all there was to give them company were rotten corpses and desolate camps. Each mile they rode only angered her further, until by the time they reached the abandoned Rosby, all that was left in her innards was white-hot rage.

"Some of the remains are from the War of Five Kings," Varys told her, when they had all settled in the castle. "I insisted to Lord Tywin whenever I could, but at the time, he was too occupied with Tyrion's trial."

Daenerys' laugh was ice. "No," she said. "Of course not. Gods know he was too worried about the death about his dwarf son to care for his subjects. At least he does not have a history of, say, sacking King's Landing. Nor must I begrudge Cersei for her lack of heart. For her, the big men play, small ones die. Varys," she said suddenly, "let no commoner needing shelter from the cold be denied a roof here."

"I appreciate your, spirit, Your Grace," Varys began diplomatically, "but we cannot trust all-"

"If you appreciate my spirit," she said quickly, "you will obey my commands. I need to trust my subjects before asking them to trust me."

Varys left just in time for the vomit to creep up her throat again. The journey had been a hard one, and Daenerys' stomach had never really settled since she rode Drogon to Barrowton. _The rage did not help it either. I must be calmer._

When Varys came with Qhono, Grey Worm and Missandei for the Dragon Council, Daenerys spared no time. "Did the journey from Riverrun to Rosby lose us any men?"

"No, Your Grace," Varys said. "After we left the Blackfish with the remaining Tyrell men and Lord Paxter Redwyne, we are left with eight-thousand Unsullied and forty thousand Dothraki. We have also heard from Ellaria Sand," he added hastily. "She has conquered the Stormlands and killed Gilbert Farring with ten-thousand men to spare."

"Good," she said. "I intend to leave three-thousand Unsullied here, to guard you and Missandei when I march for war. Forty-five thousand from my side and ten-thousand from hers should be enough for us to win this war."

"I hope so. Cersei has sixty-five thousand men, fifteen-thousand of them Windblown, but I imagine the sellswords will scatter when they see the shadows of a dragon on the capital." He hesitated. "King's Landing is very populated, Your Grace. Are you sure you intend to use the dragon?"

The rage, which Daenerys had hidden while the Council was underway, was back. "And win the throne how?" she said. "By asking nicely? I don't want things to go this way, Varys, truly not, but hard decisions need to be made. The people have been tolerating hell for too long. They crave revolution. Cersei tricks them with reforms, while Westeros reaches the pinnacle of its decadence. Only fire and blood can purge it from oblivion. For those who wish for the heads of Cersei and Jaime Lannister, I will not give them half-hearted reforms."

Before Varys could rebut, Daenerys turned to Qhono, "Blood of my blood," she said in Dothraki, "war will shortly be upon us. You know how we plan to attack. I advise you that, when the time for war comes, the greatest war we may fight in our life, we do it right. After we have taken the city, I do not want to hear reports of looted houses or raped women. The only ones who will suffer are those who deserve it. For what they did to my house, to Tyrion, to the Starks, the Tyrells and Martells, the Lannisters will be repaid their debts a thousand times over. This mummer's farce has run its course. My people deserve their fairytale."

**6\. King's Landing**

As Sansa Stark watched the first southern snows fall from her window, the messenger finally arrived. It had taken her longer than she thought, but Cersei Lannister had finally sent her the cordial invite. "A cheap power play," Sansa told Brienne, when the handmaiden bearing the news had left. "She thought she was unnerving by not speaking to me since I arrived in the capital. Little did she know it gave me time to place my pawns."

"I still do not approve of what you did with Ser Jaime," Brienne told her, as they walked toward Cersei's chambers, Ghost beside them. "Passions are not to play games with."

"They are not," Sansa said. The thought did not fill her with pride, but she steeled herself soon enough. "You cannot survive in King's Landing if you do not play the game. I play the game as honorably as I can. I know I will not live long if I have no use for anyone, but I do not use gold, empty promises or my family name to make myself useful. This world has not been kind to its people, and broken people have many songs to sing. I do them the dignity of listening, when others would rather walk away. It is the most humane way to make quick allies. A good ear, a deliverance of trust – that connects people more than power or profit."

The three had reached her chambers by then. Sansa strode in, and while Cersei raised an arched eyebrow at the full-grown direwolf that walked in with her, neither of them addressed the subject further.

"Sansa, little dove," Cersei said in her best attempts of a person sounding delighted. "I apologize for not being available sooner. I hope the talk of war has not worried you?"

"Of course not," she said casually. "After my brother and Queen Daenerys made peace, I am perhaps the safest person in King's Landing. That, I suppose, is more than I can say for you."

Cersei's nostrils flared, and the Mountain beside her moved a little, but she maintained her composure. "You always were a clever girl," she said. "You are also clever enough to know that this war can go two ways. If it goes my way, I shall honor my promise to Lord Baelish and send you back to Winterfell. If it does not… I hope you will let Queen Daenerys know of the kind hospitality we have served you at the capital."

Sansa openly laughed. "Is someone frightened after the Roast of Riverrun?" she said. "To be sure, when Queen Daenerys storms the front gates, I will be the first to tell her of your kind hospitality. Of the first time I stepped foot in the capital, when my father was beheaded and my sister forced to flee. That ought to bring some very swift justice, should it not, Cersei?"

Her tone was much flatter now. "You will call me Your Grace," she said, "and you would do well to remember that my men outnumber your northern cunts fifty-to-one. I can snap my fingers and hold you hostage. Mayhaps that will slow down the dragon bitch."

"Back to blunter ways, are we?" Sansa replied coolly. "I appreciate the honesty. I shall return it with some of my own. You can snap your fingers," she said, "and watch a pretty picture I paint unfold before your eyes. It will start with your Lord Hand Littlefinger and his five-thousand Arryns turning against you. That may be a blow you can absorb, if Mhaegen would not instigate riots among the Righteous Saviors at the same time. Surely you cannot handle a war inside the Crownlands as well as outside?"

Cersei only seemed mildly worried, but Sansa still had her final hand to play. "Nobody likes to fight a war alone. It is what you have been doing all this while. Mayhaps you thought you could handle it, as long as at least one person stood beside you. But is Jaime's recent behavior making you rethink that?"

"There is no need for this, Lady Sansa," Brienne whispered quickly, as Cersei's eyes widened in horror. Sansa plunged on recklessly. "He talks to me," she told Cersei. "Probably because he needs someone to talk to, so he does not feel less alone. There have been issues between the two of you, but maybe you think they will heal in time. They may, I grant you, but snap those fingers and they never will. I imagine he would react poorly if you move against the woman he swore to protect." She paused, waiting for the words to settle. "Give the command, Cersei," she said, finally, "and I swear to cast you down and take all you hold dear."

_It's all right,_ she kept telling herself, as Sansa looked at her shocked face. Even if the Mountain were to attack her now, she had Ghost to pounce on him and Brienne in complete chainmail besides.

When Cersei spoke, it was in tones thin. "You will call me Your Grace," she feebly reiterated, realizing how tightly her hands were tied.

Sansa boldly placed her fingers on Cersei's desk, leaning in slightly, looking in her frightened green eyes. "When the dragon sinks its teeth between your breasts, _Your Grace,_ remember how beautiful the snows were tonight. That may make you feel less alone."

**7\. The Wall**

_They're here._

Were they here? When would they be here?

Jon Snow could not remember the last time leadership disinterested him so. Since the time he had seen Samwell's blank face, many had come to start conversation. Thoros, despite losing Beric to his Lord of Light, tried to pass the time with sorry japes. Edd tried to make his mind focus on the coming war, whenever he had the time. Even Tormund, a man not known for this form of camaraderie, chipped in with infrequent counsel. "We go on," he told him, before being aware of his vulnerability, and awkwardly slinking back into the shadows.

Jon had ears for few of them. He spent most of his time with Rhaegal. Dragons were completely alien to him not many moons ago, yet here he was. The dragon reminded him of Ghost. Jon wondered how his direwolf was. _Probably bounding in the godswood of King's Landing._ The capital was a dangerous place for Sansa to communicate from, which meant Jon had not sent ravens to her for ages. Jon did not worry for her. Between Daenerys and Littlefinger, her safety was assured.

The thought of Daenerys made his heart ache. What they briefly shared felt like a lifetime ago, yet he could still feel the southern wind carry her scents to the castle, the sweet air resting on his lips, as if she still kissed him from a world away. "I promised to do her my duty," Jon told the dragon, "so why does my mind stop me?"

The words he had told her came back to him. _Thank you of reminding me of my oath._ He forced his legs to move inside the castle. "What is he doing?" Jon told Edd, when he went inside, pointing at Thoros.

Edd looked at him oddly, surprised he took an interest. "I told him to try bringing people back from the dead," he said. "Hey, it's twelve-thousand men against a legion of White Walkers. We can use every man, can't we?"

The bodies were laid in line, covered with shrouds. Jon could still recognize Samwell from under it. His blue fingers poked from under the sheets. "We certainly can," he said, grabbing his sword. "Mayhaps it's time for me to pull my weight as well. I will patrol the Wall tonight. Tormund needs his rest."

Jon Snow turned to leave, but his eye caught Thoros of Myr's charade again. A lot of men were casting quick glances at the fire priest, Jon noticed, in hope that one of their mates would open their eyes, singing songs of the magic of the world beyond. Jon's gaze was blank before Thoros approached Sam.

A flitter of hope danced in his bellies, but before he knew it, Thoros was done muttering his useless incantations, and had moved on to the next corpse. _The gods are cruel,_ he told himself. _Imagine giving Beric Dondarrion seven lives, all so he could stop a brief battle with White Walkers. It's not as if he changed the outcome of the war, merely postponed it._ He turned to leave into the bitter cold air.

A second later, when the scream filled the common hall with sounds familiar, Jon Snow turned in alarm. Staring back at him were the eyes of Samwell Tarly, shocked, naked but very much alive.


	16. Season 8 Episode 6

**1\. King's Landing**

He heard his feet echo across dark corridors. He wondered if he walked to his death, and if he were, if he would feel the fear in his last moments.

Jaime Lannister walked across the drawbridge and above iron spikes glistening with frost to reach the doors of Maegor's Holdfast. He rapped on the big brass doors impatiently, wanting to be inside, away from the cold. The doors opened, and there stood Gregor Clegane.

Gregor's visage covered the threshold. "Move," Jaime told him, eyes fixed on his golden chest. He felt the glowers of the Mountain through his full body armor, unmoving. It was all part of Cersei's game, Jaime knew, until Gregor slowly rested his hand on his shoulder. It was meant to be light, but Jaime felt the full force of a mountain on himself. He flinched, and fear found him.

Gregor left, and Jaime saw Cersei behind him.

She stood with her back to her brother, a glass of wine in hand, staring at the black sky. "The war will be here on the morrow," she said, not turning. "Have arrangements been made?"

"You know they have. This cannot be why you called me here, at this time," Jaime said bluntly. He was already flustered by the Mountain's slight, and had no intent of falling prey to another one of Cersei's power plays. She was not going to unnerve him by not making eye contact. "Turn and speak plainly, or I leave."

Cersei froze abruptly, as if the conversation was not going as she wished. When she turned, her head was low and partly hidden with shadows, but the tears glistened through.

"These past months have been the worst of my life," she said, stuttering. "I don't know whom to trust. I don't know what happens next. I don't know if we will live. All I knew was you, and now I feel I don't even know that." She moved closer. "Forgive me," she was saying. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for keeping you away. I don't want to die with things broken." Before Jaime knew, her hands were wrapped around him. "Help me. I need you as I have never needed you before. I love you, I love you, I love you."

She began to kiss his chest, and at that moment, Jaime wanted nothing more than to push her away. He finally saw the worst of her, from her foolish schemes to her arrogance. She repelled him. Apologies could not repair broken foundations. Their minds were on two different planes. Cersei's could not recognize his, and he did not want to recognize hers.

Jaime forced himself to kiss her head. It was not out of fear. He did not for a second believe that Cersei would set Gregor Clegane on him if he did not consent. But when she had come to him, desperate and pleading, Jaime realized he could not wash his hand clean from the history he shared with her. They had come into this world together. If he were to leave her, it would not be on the eve of the greatest battle of their lives. He could not find it in him to deny the closure she needed.

He kissed the devil's mouth. He touched the devil's breasts. He undressed her, and thrust his cock inside of her. And all the while, he forced his mind to return to simpler times, when Tyrion and Father were alive, when Robert was king and their nights felt like thrilling escapades, when he sniffed from her skin the scents of love.

The first rays shone on his face, waking him up. Jaime felt Cersei's arm pressed tightly against him, her eyes still shut. He woke her up quickly, gently forcing his hands from her. _I have done my duty, but I won't do it a second longer than necessary._ "Wake up," he told her. "It is time."

Cersei rose groggily, and then swiftly. "Time? Time for war?"

_Time to die._

**2\. King's Landing**

They were finally here. Great brown walls stood before them through white leaves and thick trees. They stood hidden in snowy woods, watching from the horizon slowly emerge shapes and silhouettes.

"Lots of war," Clegane was saying, "by lots of cunts. Getting in will be easy."

"Yes," she said, eyes still fixed on the closed gates. Her plan was to wear a face Jaqen H'ghar had made, but the Hound knew secret tunnels and passageways which would make infiltration easier. She had reached the end of her path, to the last gift she owed the Many-Faced God. What came next she did not want to think, albeit a seed of an idea had sprouted in her mind.

"Didn't know you still cared about your bloody list," the Hound was telling her. "If I were you, I'd flee back to Winterfell. At least you have a home now."

She did not want to disclose much, about the list that did not live. "Maybe not," she said instead. "But what if the rumors are true? What if White Walkers have occupied Winterfell?"

"Rumors," the Hound said, laughing crassly. "Some claim Winterfell has been sacked. Nearly all the inns we visited called your bastard brother a son of Rhaegar. Another claims a half-burned man wielded a burning sword against an army of the dead. But I'm no fool. If I believed half the rumors at King's Landing, I'd think sea dragons were real and Tywin Lannister shat gold. The only way to know truth is to see for yourself."

An inhuman screech filled the air, and the pair turned.

The army was clearer now, marching upon the Rosby Road, but she and Clegane had eyes for the winged beast above them, spewing hot air into cold winds. She had seen the dragon at Pyke, but Clegane did not know that. She feigned surprise with him. "Sometimes rumors can be real."

"Aye," he replied, eyes still in the sky. "That's enough flames I've seen for a day," he said, grimacing morbidly. "It's time to go cross some names."

**3\. The Wall**

They were up all night, prepared to tend to anything Samwell Tarly needed, but he refused. "I really am fine," he told Tormund, Edd, Thoros, Gilly and Jon Snow sheepishly, once they had gotten over the shock. "I mean, I don't know how," he said curiously, as if he were trying to understand how melted ice became water, "but I can breathe and speak well enough, I suppose."

Gilly punched him on his shoulder. "Shut up," she said, but not maliciously. "Is this what I am to tell Little Sam? That you were stabbed in the belly by White Walkers, but you're _fine now?_", to which Sam thought it best to let feeble reiterations rest.

Thoros was still gazing in wonderment at Sam's scarred body. "The Lord of Light does not wish you dead yet," he said. "That is clear… but why?"

Edd, who had gotten over the shock as quickly as Tormund had, joined in. "Maybe he's destined to kill the Night King. How about that, Sam the Slayer?"

But Gilly and Jon Snow had no time or tolerance for japes. Samwell saw them staring at him, eyes brighter than moons. They were a mix of joy and worry, celebrating his return yet wondering if he would drop dead the next minute. "I'm fine," he wanted to say, not knowing however else to calm them down, before he recalled why Gilly punched him the last time.

The mention of the Night King seemed to remind Jon about matters beyond his friend. "Edd," he said, "is everything ready?" The Lord Commander's voice reverted to gloom. "Yes," he said. "If there is a hint of blue beyond the Wall, someone will be here to tell us so. It will not be as chaotic as last time," he said.

The mention of the time White Walkers breached the Wall brought back silence on an otherwise half-humored company. Edd decided to break it with the worst question possible. "Are we all going to die?"

The quiet festered and became a solid being in the room. Sam remembered the stabs of the spear against his stomach. He suppressed a shudder. Tormund turned to Thoros. "Are you sure you cannot bring everyone back to life?" he said, trying to break the silence with a jape. "We can build an army of the living, _har!_"

"I swore an oath to Daenerys Targaryen," Jon said determinedly. "We swore oaths before old gods and the new. We fight for ourselves, for family, for gods in trees, for the Watch, the Lord of Light, the living. We cannot promise that the dawn is near. But the Night King can take our life, he can also take our deaths, but he will not take what made our lives worth living," he said. There was silence again, but this one was warmer. "Whatever happens," he said, "we have each other."

They sat there, clutching their swords of dragonglass, staring at nothingness. He held tight silver chains that made him the most important man on the Wall. _For the Watch,_ Samwell Tarly whispered to himself, as he, with everyone else, sat in silent anticipation for someone to arrive, to tell them to do their duty.

It was Davos who came. When he opened the door, Samwell heard a flurry of activity from beyond, and knew the others had been told. Jon turned to the half-burned man. "It's time?" he asked, to which the Onion Knight gave a brief nod.

It was time to kill or be killed.

**4\. King's Landing**

_To clarify: Daenerys Targaryen plans to attack the Iron Gate at the east with all her 40,000 Dothraki. She plans to leave 5,000 Unsullied waiting at the Rosby Road, while the remaining 3,000 Unsullied are tented nearby, guarding Varys, Missandei and the others. Ellaria Sand, ally to Daenerys, plans to attack the River [or 'Mud'] Gate at the south with 10,000 Dornishmen. Cersei Lannister plans to defend the city with 45,000 Lannisters at the Iron Gate, 15,000 Windblown at the Mud Gate and 5,000 Arryns inside the Red Keep. If the positions of gates/roads/locations confuse you, refer to a map of the city._

The last time war plagued this land, she had dearly hoped Lord Stannis would have broken through the ranks, beheading every Lannister once he sat the Iron Throne, especially that cunt Joffrey. That day, it was Mace Tyrell and Tywin Lannister that prevented the inevitable. Today, as Sansa Stark saw the horde of Dothraki charge from the Rosby Road, with the shadow of a dragon blanketing them, she grinned with malice.

"Cersei has five-thousand Arryns inside the Red Keep and fifteen-thousand Windblown guarding the Mud Gate, waiting for the Sand Snakes," Sansa said. "Littlefinger told me the Lannisters have forty-five thousand men to defend the Rosby Road," she observed, as she saw the men on walls and streets guarding the Iron Gate. "How silly is it, that Cersei Lannister chooses to put her best men underneath the breath of a dragon?"

Brienne was silent, so Sansa went on. "Have arrangements been made?"

"They have," she said briefly. There was a pause, after which she said, "I must repeat that what you have planned for is very unlikely, not to mention rash. I urge you to reconsider. I do not think it will work."

"It has to," Sansa was certain. "Targaryens are now allied with us, Martells, Greyjoys and Tullys," she told her, while staring out the window, waiting for the two opposing forces to clash. "The Mad Queen's reign is over. Whichever way the war plays out, today is the day House Lannister falls. When it does, I will be in control of what comes next."

**5\. The Wall**

This was his home for many years, but the night Viserion fell at the feet of the Night King, Jon Snow knew the difficult choice he would have to make, the only choice.

They had planned the escape ever since the White Walkers had attacked. Eleven-thousand men ran to the rear with shards of obsidian in hand, weapons they were told to eat, piss and sleep with. Jon saw Davos Seaworth on a wayn pushed by five others. He caught glimpses of Dolorous Edd running beside him, and with a sigh, realized he would be the last Lord Commander to hold Castle Black.

Eleven-thousand men rushed from nooks, corners and corridors of the ancient castle, the castle that held the Wall for six hundred years, the castle which would not stand minutes after.

The rear gates had already been left open. Jon Snow stood with Dolorous Edd at the threshold, yelling at everyone to exit. "Let's go, _let's go!_" he said, gesturing wildly, as wildlings, Night's Watch, Highgarden and Winterfell men rushed past each other through the narrow exit. Jon looked up to see Rhaegal leave from the top of the Wall as well, flying towards him.

When the last man exited, Jon told Edd to help him bar the doors from the outside. "Fat load of good that will do!" Edd yelled, as the snow thickened, but he helped him.

Between Castle Black and Mole's Town lay a moderate expanse of woods, and it was there that Jon and Edd met the rest of the army. "Are they here?" Tormund asked, the moment they reached.

"Not yet. We got out in time."

Eleven-thousand men waited for what felt like an hour, behind trees and bushes, ready for movement, ice daggers in hand. The winds became steadily heavier. People hugged each other for heat. Rhaegal was beside Jon Snow, snarling in ways that would have frightened Ghost, but the sight in front of them was yet still. "What's keeping them?" Tormund kept asking, lesser out of curiosity, more to break the silence. "Do you think the watchers saw it wrong?"

Jon was skeptical. _What else is there to see beyond?_

The cold wind carried screeches.

Jon felt everyone behind him exchange glances at each other. He felt fear boil as the screams grew louder. _I must be the light,_ Jon Snow kept telling himself. It was all he could do to stop him fleeing from the sounds.

They heard a thundering crack, a sound when lightning struck the earth. They saw a huge crack across the Wall. It widened slowly. "Savor the sight," Jon yelled bravely, the sound still ringing in his ears. "This is what you'll tell your kids when they ask-"

The Wall burst open, stunning him into silence.

It was the same place he could not abandon when Robb had called his banners. The same Wall that wept when days were warm. It was always there, cold, forbidding, unforgiving, bound by ice, stone, magic and time. The same place he could do nothing but watch helplessly, as the strongest structure known to man tumbled to the snow like a feeble house of cards. "This is real," Jon mumbled to himself, as he saw the ice dragon behind the fallen white wonder, "this is happening."

"Night gathers," the voices said behind him, "and now my watch begins."

Jon turned around, and saw the thousands of men with swords of obsidian grasped tightly in their hands, in their eyes the dancing flames. "We fight for each other," he yelled, as the Night King's dragon destroyed what remained of Castle Black. "Not for honor, for gold or women, but life itself. We fight to win!"

As the White Walkers tore open the doors Dolorous Edd and he had barred, Jon Snow mounted the dragon beside him. He gave Rhaegal a light kick, before it rose up to meet the Night King in the sky.

_It shall not end until my death._

**6\. King's Landing**

He stood at the windows in his chambers, watching his men failing to spin silver from shit. As the Dothraki horde inched closer, Jaime Lannister began to understand what Olenna felt like, cooped up among the walls of Highgarden, waiting for death to close her. He picked up the dagger beside him, wondering if he had the strength to slice it across his veins.

"Fuck this," he finally said to himself. "Those are my men getting killed. The best I can do is lead them instead of sitting here cradling my golden paw." He grabbed his sword and left his chambers.

Jaime was met with wary eyes as he walked through the corridors. They followed him as he went past, as if trying to pull him back with gaze alone. _They think I will be slaughtered,_ he thought, his left fingers balling into an angry fist. Every reproachful glance spurred him to fight and die on the field even more.

When he turned a corner, he ran into her. "Lady Brienne," he said, slightly puzzled. "I thought you would be with Sansa."

"She is in her chambers," Brienne replied. Her voice was stiff. "She has men protecting her." She paused, voice now softening slightly. "Where were you going?" she asked, even though she seemed to know the answer.

"Those are my men dying. I'm going to fight with them."

Brienne's blue eyes were skeptical but not, Jaime recognized, like the others. "If that is what drives you," she said, clearly indicating she thought otherwise. She moved to leave, but turned at the last moment. "Your honor does not need your life, Ser Jaime," she said. "You have nothing to prove to me. There are few knights who have saved the lives of half a million people. I hope you remember that."

She left, leaving Jaime alone and with another thought. She loves me, he realized, staring blankly where she once stood. _She loves me, the poor fool._

**7\. The Wall**

As light snows fell, she saw the Dothraki charge upon the Iron Gate from above. She steered Drogon closer to the gates. _Through the gates, and inside the Red Keep awaits the Kingslayer and his whore sister. My realm bleeds as long as they live._ Daenerys Targaryen would not let fear hold her back. She was excited. She was hungry.

Daenerys had kept five-thousand Unsullied behind, while the forty-thousand men on horseback charged to meet the Iron Gate. Breaking through the barriers would be simple, and she did not want to lose any Unsullied during this battle.

The walls were lined with Lannister men, bewildered if they ought to defend the gates from forty-thousand savage horsemen or take cover from a flame-throwing beast. She heard the commander on the Iron Gate yell _nock, draw, loose_, before an array of needles hit Drogon's stomach, splintering away meekly.

The chaos she heard from the walls were music to her ears. It was time to add to that.

"_Dracarys."_

Drogon's breath steamed through what remained of the Iron Gate, charring it to dust and leaving the pathway clear for her men to charge upon thousands of Lannisters. She saw the men on the walls flee like roaches from cats. _They deserve worse,_ Daenerys thought, as she swooped in to turn the remaining men to ash.

As the Dothraki and the Lannisters fought a bloody battle below, Daenerys wondered what Cersei Lannister had up her sleeve. Varys had warned her of wildfire, but she did not see any signs of it yet. She had to be mindful of which places Drogon chose to burn. She could not go near Visenya's Hill, for that was where the Alchemists' Guild lay. One spark could burn down the area and kill tens of thousands of innocents.

She did not need dragonfire anyhow. The Lannisters had outnumbered the Dothraki by five-thousand, but it seemed to make no difference. Daenerys saw Qhono lead the massacre, as the men on horseback sliced holes through their defense. _The events of today will eclipse the Roast of Riverrun._

A huge black arrow whizzed past Drogon's wing.

For a second Daenerys was beyond the Wall, when Viserion's eye rained with blood. She flew around the Iron Gate to see where the arrow had come from. She saw, among the smoldering remains of the wall, the men trying to hide the massive ballista from her gaze. "So that's Cersei Lannister's game," she said, almost laughing in relief, as Drogon swooped to consume it with flames.

The battle at the Iron Gate had ended. The few Lannisters still alive had retreated to the capital, and from what she could see, there were at least ten-thousand Dothraki alive. "Charge!" she yelled at the Unsullied, who marched past the burning remains of the Iron Gate, open and inviting. Daenerys could not believe how easy it had been. _The bulk of Cersei's forces have been killed. Now I only need Ellaria Sand to plunge through the Mud Gate._

She saw the Dothraki turn their sights to Flea Bottom and charge into the ruinous waste. "No!" she yelled, but Qhono did not listen. The temptation of raping and pillaging had taken over the horde. They had disobeyed the plan of attacking the Red Keep for their prizes. _How am I better than Tywin Lannister if I do not put an end to this?_ She moved to send threatening sparks near Flea Bottom to scare the horde away.

The moment the flames fell, Daenerys Targaryen realized how foolish she had been.

**8\. King's Landing**

Maegor's Holdfast had no windows, but Cersei Lannister was not interested in sight, only sweet sound. When it finally came, rumbling through the foundations of the Red Keep, sending shivers from the Wall to the Arbor, she let out the smile of relief. "First Stannis, then the High Sparrow, and now the Targaryen bitch. How did my enemies fall for that same trick thrice?"

Gregor Clegane's silent visage gave her only company. Cersei looked at him with pride. He was her mad dog, and Father's when he was alive. Mad dogs won wars, Father had taught her, but they needed to be used well. The Targaryen bitch was foolish. She had an army of mad dogs, not knowing they could be tempted by juicy bones.

The door creaked open behind her, bringing in a waft of chill. Cersei turned to see the panicked messenger. "Your Grace," he was saying hurriedly, "Flea Bottom is in flames!"

"I know." Cersei's calm countenance worried him further. _The fool mistakes green flames with red._ "How many Dothraki were caught in the fire?"

The messenger struggled to gather his bearings. "A lot," he stuttered finally. "They had gone to rape and pillage the district. All that remains of Daenerys' army now is a handful of Dothraki, the five-thousand untouched Unsullied at the Rosby Road and Sand Snakes at the Mud Gate."

The mention of the cunt Ellaria vexed her further. "Littlefinger had promised me the Windblown would defend the Mud Gate!" she yelled at the messenger, even though it was of no use. Maybe she was wrong to assume the snake had teeth. "How many men do we have left?" she said trying to keep her calm.

"Not much, Your Grace," the messenger replied cautiously. "Five-thousand Arryns inside the Red Keep. A handful of Windblown are fighting the Sands… but I doubt any of them will hold up against the dragon. Qyburn's crossbows have been useless."

The momentary lapse of joy she had had vanished. It was all she could do to not fling the wine on the messenger's face. "Bring me Jaime now," she told the man, before he left. _Bring me Jaime. In this world of ashes, bring me the one thing I did not ruin._

She stared into the crackling fireplace, all hope forlorn. She had done all she could, but it was not enough. The Windblown were getting eaten alive by the Sand Snakes. Daenerys Targaryen knocked at her doors with five-thousand cockless cunts and a dragon. Euron and his friend, her only hope to defeat the winged beast, were unheard of, probably drowned in the seas.

Cersei Lannister had fought with fear, fought with compromise and with lust, but it changed nothing. She knew this moment may come. "If I am to die, it will not be waiting at the hands of that righteous cunt." She turned to Ser Gregor. "You know what you have to do when Jaime arrives," she told him. "You've always known." The eight-foot man looked down at her with dead, obedient eyes, and nodded.

The door behind creaked. "Jaime?"

Instead, she heard a thick rasp. "Not your bloody golden boy-toy, no," the voice barked. Cersei turned around in alarm and saw the heavily scarred man. When he spoke, the scabbed skin cracked, and gooey yellow fluid oozed. "Leave my dear brother for me, girl," the Hound said, licking away the pus.

Cersei Lannister looked at the _girl_ with horrified, disbelieving eyes. "Arya, little animal," she said. "Whatever are you doing here?"

The girl's eyes did not move from her, as the sword unsheathed.

"I owe a gift."


	17. Season 8 Episode 7

**1\. The Wall**

He kept his dagger of obsidian as shield against blinding white winds, fearful of corpses breaking through the snowstorm. All he saw were raging snows, all he heard, shouts and screams. On occasion, when from the heavens came blinding lights, Davos Seaworth saw for a split second the butchery of the army of the dead.

Winter was everywhere.

They were hunting in pairs, in tens, in packs. They had surrounded the living from all fours, broke lines with no rhyme or rhythm, no form and one purpose. When dragonfire ceased, Davos saw nothing but the blizzard. _What use are my eyes if snows blind me so?_

Dolorous Edd was wise in commanding the men flee the castle when the White Walkers came, for when the ice dragon had toppled the Wall, with it had crumbled the foundations of Castle Black. He had also ordered Samwell Tarly go with spare dragonglass to Mole's Town. The half-broken village would serve as a place of recoup, if the army on the Wall were forced to retreat.

But, as Davos hobbled around with a bare bodkin, surrounded by screams of death and paralyzing cold, he realized there was only so much man could prepare against magic.

Even if he was at the back of the army, Mole's Town was a long way away. Davos had not the strength to run back. Half his body was burned with fire, the other numbing with ice. _Fuck this,_ he told himself finally. _I need to run to spare myself from frostbite._ He hobbled, not in the direction of Mole's Town, but north, to help battling friends.

The wight came at him from the front, and Davos was thankful his dagger was still poised the right way. It had lasted a split second, but the sight had startled him into submission, feet still as stone. He only watched as the dead man charged, impaling himself on the dragonglass in his hand, and burst upon the Onion Knight into shards of brightest blue. When it died, the yell was unnatural and strangled, of someone struggling to draw breath.

The screams had increased; they were in front and behind. Davos felt his heart thump through his ribs, not knowing which screams were human. His leg ached horribly, his mind was clouded with fear and he felt his remaining fingers would fall away with frostbite. _I want this to end,_ he thought desperately, looking up to the dancing flames in hope. The Long Night could not end, not until Jon Snow struck Longclaw against the Night King's blue skin… or if someone did the same to him.

Davos tripped on a fallen corpse. _Seven hells._ He tried to rise quickly, but tired legs prevented him. He clutched the corpse, trying to haul himself up with its support. When he saw the body, shock took over him again.

It was Dolorous Edd.

Another strangled yell came at him. Fallen, he looked up to glaring bright blue eyes. The wight grabbed him with a single hand, lifting him bodily from the snow. For a second, Davos Seaworth was lost in the blank, lifeless eyes, the white snowy beard of a man so huge he could have giant's blood.

When the wight's mouth opened and yellowing teeth neared his eyes, Davos snapped out of his trance.

He plunged the obsidian into his torso, at the same time the wight's teeth clamped his eyes. Davos yelled in agony as the half-giant froze on his face, teeth not letting go. _Fall, fall, damn you!_ the Onion Knight thought, his hands wriggling the obsidian desperately.

There was a yank from someone else, and the giant came down. When it finally did, with it came a sickening crunching sound. Davos Seaworth realized an unknown man had saved his life, but his indecision had cost him his sight.

"I'm here to help," the voice said, even though when he touched Davos, his hands were cold. He wondered if he should laugh at talking White Walkers taking pity on him.

He fell on Dolorous Edd, consciousness slipping from his fingers, blood and snow raining down his face, not knowing if he was to wake, the last thoughts focused on his wife.

_Marya…_

**2\. King's Landing**

The green flames crackled, dancing high in the sky, threatening to touch the airborne dragon. Daenerys Targaryen stared in horror at commoners shrieking before turning to ash, at a Dothraki horde fleeing like cats, the dreaded green streak following and consuming them. As Flea Bottom crumbled, she wondered if the fires would split the ground open.

The wildfire was dying, but it still had Drogon restless. It flew erratically, wanting to be far from the flames, away from the war. Daenerys scarce noticed it. Her eyes were fixed on the madness, on thousands of innocent lives laid waste. _Even if I take the Iron Throne, this war will have been a failure._

Her five-thousand Unsullied were still standing, but the Dothraki that had chose to raid Flea Bottom were all ash. Daenerys forced Drogon to swoop low. "How many men do you think we lost?" she yelled at Grey Worm.

A raging magic fire had burned in the city, but Grey Worm's voice was still calm. "We may have a thousand Dothraki alive, Your Grace," he said shortly.

_Six-thousand men in all._ Daenerys flew in the sky, glancing at the Mud Gate, where the Sand Snakes still kept the Windblown busy. The gate would fall soon, and after the men in the Red Keep were beaten, the city would be theirs.

But for her, shock had turned into rage. She would not let Cersei Lannister's vile tricks go unpunished. It was time to fight fire with fire.

The dragon soared up Aegon's High Hill, approaching the keep where the liar of liars lay. A few black arrows whizzed in her direction, but Drogon was too quick for them to stand a chance. She saw the faces of a few scared men at the ramparts, at windows. They wore sigils of falcons and lions.

They are still men, a voice spoke inside her. Men with families, men with lives. They are not all Cersei Lannister. Then she remembered the smoking ruins of Flea Bottom, innocent men, women and children burned alive on the whims of a mad queen.

"Dracarys."

The flames torched the top, roasting the roof of the Red Keep. Daenerys felt the fire melt away fallen snow, felt the morning air become warmer. Below, she saw men flee the fortress in fright, whom the Unsullied and remaining Dothraki made quick work of. She urged Drogon on. _Dracarys, Dracarys!_

There was a huge groan, and the scarlet bricks gave way.

Drogon stopped. Daenerys flew cautiously, her heart still thumping through her ribs. She gazed at the wrecked Great Hall from above. As the great ball of fire rose in the sky, light fell on flakes of snow, gently nestling on an empty throne of swords.

It was the seat of her father, the seat she was owed, the seat she was told she was owed. An ugly chair from where she would build a beautiful world, a world where justice prevailed, where virtue conquered vice.

Then came the screams, the yells, the toots.

**3\. The Wall**

The dragons were having a dance of their own, and it was all Jon Snow could do to hold on for dear life.

The thought of mounting Rhaegal had frightened him, but he had at least assumed he would be in control. _You know nothing,_ he was reminded, as Rhaegal twisted and swerved the shoots of ice from Viserion's mouth, while Jon shouted frantically the only word he could think. "Dracarys! _Dracarys!_"

Rhaegal did not listen to him. Jon was thankful he did not – the timing of his commands was utterly random. While Rhaegal tried to fight the ice dragon on his own, Jon caught glimpses of the rider. The Night King's face, if one could call it a face, was as savage as it was serene. He seemed to be commanding Viserion's corpse by thought alone.

Jon was a passenger, a lost one. Vomit dribbled from his lips as he thought frantically what he ought to do. Every attempt Rhaegal made to char Viserion had failed. He couldn't use dragonfire below; there was every chance it would burn more friends than foes. The Night King was not using Viserion to shoot ice below too. Instead, he toyed with Jon, keeping his best weapon busy, while the army of the dead lay waste to the living. _I don't know if the Night King has a heart, but he certainly has a mind._

There was a flash of light, a cold gush of air, and Jon Snow knew Rhaegal was struck on the wing.

The dragon plummeted to the snow, Jon clinging on. Fear gripped him. It dragged him down. _No_, a voice said inside him. _This is not how I die._ Somehow, he forced himself to sit erect. "Rhaegal!" he yelled, as he yanked at the dragon's scales, forcing it to steer upward. It did not move.

When the whiteness cleared and Jon saw the fallen blocks of the Wall staring at him, he pictured his broken body splattered among its shattered ruins, forgotten to the world.

Inches from the snow, the dragon rose.

The sudden change in trajectory knocked Jon off balance. His fingers slipped from Rhaegal's scales. He was tumbling. The snow, fortunately, was gentle, but he felt ribs crack as he rolled around helplessly.

He gasped for breath, fallen on crimson snow. Rhaegal was nowhere to be seen. Mayhaps the dragon had risen in the sky, not knowing its rider had slipped. Mayhaps it had fled. Jon would not blame the dragon if it had.

Thankfully, the shadow of Rhaegal soon loomed over him. Jon managed to stand on his feet, clutching his chest. The pain was agonizing, impairing his eyesight more than the snowstorm. "Rhaegal," he grunted, looking up at the dragon. Blue eyes stared back at him.

He looked around frantically, a place for cover, a shard of obsidian, a friend who could help. When he did, he recognized where he was. The fallen glaciers from the Wall and the ruins of Castle Black had disguised it, but Jon had been at the Wall too long to not recognize every spot. _This was where I was stabbed._

Viserion opened its mouth, drawing in a rattling breath. Jon Snow closed his eyes. He thought of Daenerys Targaryen, and how he had failed her. He hoped the Watchers on the Wall would not.

**4\. Winterfell**

There was no time to lose.

Bran had begun slowly, hoping that a few creepers or roots would have been enough. As they gently wound around him, the visions had become clearer, but he felt no stronger.

He was flying in a frigid torpedo, and from his mouth spat ice. On his back was a tremendous chill, as if he were supporting an iceberg, a piece of the Wall. In front of him danced the dragon, spewing fire his way. The jolts and jerks made him switch from the intense battle of ice and fire to the pink leaves of the weirwood tree. Every time he came to the now, Bran closed his eyes and tried harder.

It was of no use. The weeping eyes stared at him harder than ever, speaking to him through the barks, through time, through thousands of years. They told him it must end one way, that a millennium of machinations had converged to this moment, that it cared not for a boy's whims. It was only a matter of being dragged to a battlefield or entering it with a head held high.

_If I am to do it, it has to be done right._

When Meera and Wolkan placed him among the branches of the weirwood, Bran felt the warmth surround him. He remembered the Three-Eyed Raven, branches sprouting from his hairs, from gaps between his toes, trapped in his own supreme magic, not half a man nor half a tree. Bran thought of his lost dreams of knighthood, the women he'd never touch, and suddenly, the task of saving the realm felt unimportant, something that could be put off for another day.

The branches grasped him firmly as Bran felt the fever dissolve, his mind clear. He was swooping to the remains of Castle Black, the winds becoming colder the quicker he flew. Bran felt the presence of another as he wrestled to gain control.

He saw Jon rolling among bloodred snow. When he felt his mouth open, drawing in a cold rattling breath, he knew it was now or never.

The Night King had fought him all he could, but as the weirwood tightened around him, Bran knew he was much stronger. He forced the dragon's mouth shut. Barely registering Jon's bewilderment, he shook violently until the Night King on his back fell.

Bran took the ice dragon away from the war. He flew high and fast, sailing west of the Wall, above clouds so cold they may as well be blocks of ice. As he went farther away, Bran felt the Other's presence dwindle, until it disappeared with a whimper. Bran looked below at frozen forests and blankets of white, and realized for the first time that no human would enjoy the view he did.

As the Bay of Ice neared, he allowed himself one last view of the sights before the plunge. His breaths were heavy as frozen waters came nearer. If the old gods were good, he hoped, no one would find the beast, sleeping soundly on the icy bed, thousands of years after the Long Night became legend.

As the ice dragon's eyes faded to blackness, Brandon Stark heard the old gods call his name, the ravens rest on his arms. He knew it was time for him to bid the mortal coil its farewell.

**5\. King's Landing**

When they had spoken of facing the beast, as she knew was going to happen, Sandor Clegane's eyes became two sparks of flame, and his tongue slid out of burned lips to lick them in anticipation. "I like how badly I crave to kill that cunt," he had said. "To bathe in his black blood, laugh at his dead eyes. It keeps my mind clear." His voice was alive with confidence, a courage she placed to strategy. She was wrong. It was of the rawest of emotions, hate.

The two scythed at each other like animals. The Hound daren't parry any swings Gregor took with his six-feet greatsword, for his blade would surely shatter. He dodged them, and whenever he found the chance, swung his sword against his enemy. The blade rung against the Mountain's armor, leaving nasty scratches but nothing more. The beast wore heavy golden plate over chainmail and boiled leather. He looked chiseled out of rock.

The only gift she owed was Cersei Lannister. The first time she saw her, she caught frightened eyes, but as the swordfight progressed, she sunk deeper into her chair, a smile forming on her face. _The bitch sips wine,_ Arya noticed with rage. _She usurps the Iron Throne, murders my father, and sits sipping wine?_

But whenever she went at her, the glint of gold came her way. They were only four, but the holdfast was short of space, and the Mountain quick for a man of eight feet. The sudden sight always scared her, but Gregor had no eyes for the little girl. The slits of his flat-topped greathelm were always focused at his half-burned brother.

When she went to help, Sandor yelled her away. "No!" he said, narrowly escaping Gregor's slashes. "Leave him to me!" Arya ignored him. The Mountain was covered with armor from head to toe, spare the slits where his joints were. She thrust her sword through his left kneecaps with all her might. The sword found flesh, but it was so tough it did not even pierce.

_I need to stab at something softer._

She hastily pulled away her sword. The Mountain's slits stared down at her. The greatsword flashed before her eyes, and she ducked. His feet sunk into her stomach. She flew across the room like a ragged doll.

She looked up, the breath knocked out of her, relieved to see the Hound keep the beast busy while she was fallen. _"Leave him to me!"_ he kept shouting, hacking away at his impenetrable armor. She saw Cersei. The bitch had almost risen in hope, looking to finish away the girl while she was gasping for breath. She wiped sweat from her brow. The room was cramped and warm, the crackling hearth making the closed quarters stuffy, away from the snows outside.

_That's it._

The Mountain's sight was limited, but his greathelm turned as she approached the beast. _Now he means to kill me too,_ she realized. The jab at his kneecap had cost Arya her safety, although it had made the beast limp slightly. She presumed he may be bleeding inside. _The more, the merrier._

She carefully positioned herself with her back to the fireplace, facing him. Her decision was made. When she was as tiny as she was, there were only few places to aim for. The Mountain bulled at her, and Arya feinted. She quickly slid the sword between his other knee, so hard the blade stayed inside.

In the second he grunted, she ran behind, swift as a deer. "Help me!" she told Sandor, as she charged at the Mountain's back. The Hound looked at her, his staggering brother, the burning flames besides, and he understood. At the same moment she leaped at the golden plates, Sandor thrusted his shoulder in the same direction.

The wounded knees buckled, and Gregor Clegane fell headfirst into hot coals.

Cersei's yells were barely audible over the roar that the animal gave. His greathelm may have saved him from the sparks, but the Mountain was probably already cooking under heavy armor. The heat inside his headdress must be making his face melt, like a sword plunged into furnace.

Gregor Clegane flailed his feet around before he rose, weary that the Hound or she may plunge more swords into the slits, and for the first time Arya Stark sensed fear. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ When he stood, he yanked his greathelm from his face, gasping for cool air.

Things moved quickly.

Arya climbed at him from behind. Sandor charged from the front. The Mountain was swinging, trying to drop her, but her claws sunk in, holding firm. Arya's left arm was wrapped tightly around Gregor's neck. Her right arm unsheathed the dagger and found the eyes. As she fiercely pierced away, she saw Sandor's sword hand raise. Gregor was blind, but his greatsword pointed in his direction.

"_Watch out!"_

There was a horrid, stomach-turning crunch, a thunderous noise, and they all fell to the floor, yelling in agony. For a second, groans and grunts sat the Iron Throne.

She heard the noises of quick feet. She looked up. Cersei Lannister charged at her. The queen's dagger flew in her direction. Arya raised her left arm in reflex. She noticed the blood _before_ Cersei's blade hit it.

The dagger caught itself in Arya's mangled arm. Quick as a snake, the girl thrust her bodkin deep into Cersei's heart. She fell.

Arya Stark felt faint. When she saw the dying queen, the fallen brothers and her broken, bleeding arm, the chaos started to come together. While she had stabbed daggers at the Mountain's face, the Hound had aimed for his brother's neck. His sword had found it, but in the process, taken away half of Arya's left arm.

_The Hound…_

She staggered to Sandor. Gregor's greatsword had plunged through his entire torso. It had made it through the other side. He was covered and spitting in blood, but even then, Sandor Clegane's eyes blinked feebly of life. His eyes found hers. "Is he dead?", the lips whispered.

She looked over. Gregor Clegane's face was blackened and burned, his eyes crying with blood. He was motionless. The Hound's sword had not made it to the other end, but was deep enough to take his life. It was still wedged inside, as was her sword on the Mountain's knee. He was dead… dead as any beast could be.

"Yes," she told him, but Sandor had already gone.

Arya fought against unconsciousness. She plucked out her sword from Gregor's knee. She wrapped thick cloths over her arm. _There are people to help me,_ a voice inside reminded her. Jaqen H'ghar had kept well-placed allies in King's Landing. They could take her from the war and save her life.

The thunderous roar helped bring her further to her senses. She felt the walls of Maegor's Holdfast shake, as the screeching of a dragon rained across the morning sky. _The Red Keep is under assault. I need to flee soon._

A cough came from the fallen men. Arya brushed the tears with her unharmed arm to see clearly. It was Cersei, her dying eyes looking intently at her, the fingers reaching in her direction. She was whispering something.

"Tell Jaime…"

A girl sliced her throat. _Why waste your breath on the dead?_

**6\. The Wall**

When the ice dragon rushed past white winds, disappearing before Jon Snow's eyes, he felt a momentary lapse of silence fill the howling air, as men and monsters all saw the beast become a myth again. For a second, even the Night King had stopped in his steps.

The noises resumed, and they remembered their roles.

The Night King came at Jon, spear in hand. Jon managed to unsheathe Longclaw just in time. The blizzard was chilling, people around him in cries, but he only had eyes for his enemy, the one who started it all. _This is it,_ he thought, when frozen fingers clutched the hilt, armed against the Night King's charge.

The first parry rung from his fingers to toes. He would have fallen were his feet not so firmly planted in the snow. Jon prepared for the second strike, putting all his strength behind it. When it came, shudders spanned throughout his body. Cracked ribs screamed in agony. _His strength is superhuman._

As the Night King prepared for a third swing, Jon caught glimpses of dim lights in the dark sky. _Rhaegal._ The dragon had not fled after all, helping the living from above with hot, melting flames. Relief replaced the pain in his chest, and suddenly Jon Snow was confident.

The third blow was aimed at his knees. Jon quickly deflected it. He swerved his arms upward, and aimed at the villain's chest. _One touch of Valyrian steel, that's all I need._

The Night King's parry was almost lazy.

It knocked him off balance, and Jon fell to the snow. Hastily, he crawled away. He felt a sudden whoosh of wind and heard the spear bury where he lay a second ago. When he got to his feet, Longclaw slipped from his fingers.

There would be no time to pick it up. He had to run.

Jon took to his heels, fleeing as fast as his broken body allowed him. He heard another whoosh as the Night King's spear grazed the back of his neck. He daren't look back, daren't see how close his enemy was, if his next swing would be his last. But in the end, wild temptation overtook wisdom, and Jon Snow turned.

The Night King was further behind than he thought. He walked calmly to his quarry, shining blue eyes boring into his, the tip of his spear glistening in crimson. But it was not only him Jon Snow had eyes for.

Beside him, what seemed like a hundred wights stood. Some were giants, their necks and faces disappearing into the white sky. Some were on horseback. Some were children, with empty chests and skeletal feet. One of the madmen, with billowing hair of black, held Jon's sword in his hand as if it were rotting bone and not ancient Valyrian steel of House Mormont.

As the Night King continued his slow march, on cold command, the others charged.

As they came, Jon yelled for Rhaegal. He looked around for glints of obsidian. When all failed, he turned to run, trying to suppress the sad certitude, that he had cheated on death one time too many.

Then came the shatters.

They echoed behind, around, ringing in his ears, blinding them. Jon's eyes jumped to the sky, but there was no Rhaegal there. He turned, watching the giants, the children, the wolves explode before his eyes, as if they died by his will. He looked to where the Night King stood. There was no one there, only a wight with steaming skin, long billowing hair, a cloak black as coal. The wight that held Longclaw.

"For the Watch," he yelled, as Benjen Stark's face crackled, dissolving into the raging blizzard, before he combusted into cold air.

The shatters never stopped.

**7\. King's Landing**

As the last wisps of wildfire dissolved, the smoky sky made Daenerys' eyes smart.

She had struggled to see which army approached from the Rosby Road, riding past the open Iron Gate. The army was coming from the north, she realized with a flutter in her stomach. Was the threat on the Wall dealt with? Was this Jon Snow? He had made unbelievably quick time…

As the black haze cleared slightly, Daenerys saw the colors of red and dirty yellow, the sigil of the broken sword she knew too well. She saw the forces attack the Dothraki and the Unsullied from the rear. _Her_ forces.

Daenerys urged Drogon nearer so she could behold the face of the traitor himself, the man she once loved, the man she trusted with her legacy. "Where are you, Daario Naharis?" she yelled at the conflicting armies, looking for that shade of black hair, that silly smile she would dearly love to turn to ash.

It did not take long to spot him.

He stood at the threshold of the Iron Gate, away from the fighting, with four or five to protect him. They seemed to be standing in a semicircle around an object. It looked like another massive crossbow. _The rumors were true,_ she realized, saddened. _I should have believed Varys when he said the Second Sons may have turned their cloaks._

Drogon approached the cluster. As the lieutenants shielded their eyes with their arms, looking up at the shadow of the dragon, Daenerys' eyes caught Daario's. The face that looked back at her was one she did not recognize, yet knew all too well; of a sellsword who treated war like sport. Daenerys felt a tinge of mercy. _We loved each other once,_ she tried to tell him through eyes alone, before her lips parted to give Drogon the command.

It wasn't a ballista. It was a horn, and Daario blew it.

An inhuman screech filled the air. Bight and baneful was its voice, a shivering hot scream that made her bones thrum within. For a second, all war was stopped, enemies forgotten. Daenerys saw the air distort, felt ears search for safety under the din. Even the snows seemed to freeze in the air, paralyzed in shock by a sound unnatural to gods and men.

Drogon rose in the sky. Daenerys felt the great beast twitch, then shudder violently. It rose further in the air, flailing from demons unseen, sparks flying from its nose, while a perplexed Daenerys struggled to regain control. "Be still!" she commanded it in Valyrian, trying to sit erect.

Before long, she was clinging.

The voices of the battle restarting were a faraway tapestry to her. The fear of death had found her again. She realized how easy it would be for the crossbows to scythe her down. She was reminded of how far she was above the city, how she depended on her child to keep her alive, how mortal her bodice.

This time, the black arrows met.

As Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men began the plunge with her child, the life flashed past her helpless eyes. She dreamed of spring, of the house with the red door, of the taste of Jon Snow against her tongue… all of them lost after the treason for love.


	18. Season 8 Episode 8 - Series Finale

_Note: The following episode is 11000 words, or double the length of an average episode._

**1\. King's Landing**

_There are few knights who have saved the lives of half a million people. I hope you remember that._

The words of Brienne of Tarth settled in him deeper than he thought. Sansa Stark, with ears open, had helped make Jaime Lannister's life bearable, but Brienne reminded him it was actually worth living. Her words made Jaime stay inside the Red Keep, safe from what he now recognized were suicidal notions of fighting with one hand.

He stayed inside his chambers, far from his cunt sister. Neither of his eyes were on the war. His ears stubbornly ignored the shouts of death, the dragonfire, all of it. Even when he heard the unmistakable rumblings of wildfire, he couldn't move.

_Twenty years ago, you slew a king because he planned to burn the city. Why do you not move now? Those men are yours,_ the voice in him persisted, _and they need a commander, _but that did not move from his chambers. It wasn't out of fear. It was passivity, it was nothingness, a self-indulgence in his sorrows. He had seen too much war, and every war had clawed away the cockiness from him like lions tearing through sheep. They all seemed the same now. He finally understood the madness in Euron Greyjoy's eyes. It was the madness he tried his best to keep at bay.

But when he heard the dragon fell, hope awoke in him.

Jaime sprinted past terrified chambermaids and servants to the gates of the Red Keep. He summoned the remaining few hundred Lannister men inside the keep, the men who had retreated from the Dothraki horde. _I need to be sure she is dead._

Ellaria Sand and her ten-thousand men were still trying to break the Mud Gate. They were still the Targaryen's men. If Daenerys was somehow miraculously alive, the Dornishmen may still be enough to take the castle for her. But if the dragon's fall took Daenerys' life, he realized, the war would be over.

Jaime had to know if Daenerys Targaryen was dead.

If she was, Jaime may be free to do what he wished. He would leave the Mad Queen alone, having done his duty. He imagined going back to Casterly Rock, the place of his boyhood. Maybe he could sail to Essos, and make a new name for himself, better than the Kingslayer. _Goldenhand the Just?_

"We stick together!" Jaime told his men, as they were in the streets, heading towards Flea Bottom. As they neared the battlefield, Jaime saw for the first time the destruction his eyes and ears had avoided.

The smoke was still in the air, making his throat cough and vision unclear. Jaime stumbled upon mountains of dead bodies piled on each other. It was impossible to make out which corpse was foreign and which Lannister. As the smoke cleared, he saw the last strings of the battle climax, as the Second Sons killed the forsaken Unsullied. He saw the massive dragon's body fallen among the pits of Flea Bottom. He saw huge swathes of commoners flee the city from the open Iron Gate. He heard the hooves of the remaining Dothraki flee as their khaleesi fell.

The smoked ruins of Flea Bottom reminded him of his greatest fears. _I stabbed Mad King Aerys in the back… and for what?_ The wildfire had not spread to the entire city, but Flea Bottom was the city's most populated district, a place where tens of thousands stayed. Even thieves could not loot and plunder in these ruins.

As they approached the dragon, Jaime saw her.

They said she was pretty, but he would have no way of knowing. Her face was almost entirely bashed in. Apart from her left arm, her limbs were missing from her body. The only way he knew it was her was because of that unmistakable silver hair.

Jaime felt the vomit boil up to his throat, and he let loose.

It poured from him like it would never end. Jaime let every inch of that disgust and pain settle into his black heart. _This is on you,_ he kept telling himself. _You should have killed your sister. You should have led your men. You should have taken action, instead of letting Sansa and Brienne trick you into thinking you can be decent._

By the time his stomach was empty, Jaime Lannister had come to his decision. The death of Daenerys had not made him completely free. There was still one thing he had to do, a duty that he owed to the realm, or what remained of it.

He turned to the Red Keep. _Cersei Lannister could not be Queen of the Ashes._

**2\. King's Landing**

The steward steamed into his room without knocking. "She's dead!" he yelled, his hands covered with blood. "Cersei Lannister is dead!"

_I know._ Petyr Baelish was already dressed in his finest; a blue velvet tunic with puffed sleeves, and a silvery cape patterned with mockingbirds. His hair was combed, and the whiteness dyed away. "And have the Windblown at the Mud Gate stalled Ellaria Sand all they can?" He confirmed. "Good. Have them flee."

The steward's shock turned to confusion. "My… lord?"

"_Your Grace,"_ Petyr corrected him kindly. "Leave Cersei's crown on the throne, if you would be so kind."

The steward was still trying to process what had happened. "But the war…" he said, stuttering. "Ellaria Sand is ally to Daenerys…"

_And also to me._ "Queen Daenerys is dead," Petyr told the steward. "Don't worry," he said to the steward's blank face. "When an heirless Queen dies, the Hand ascends the Iron Throne. Do I need to remind you of this?"

The steward's mind seemed to clear somewhat. He gave Petyr a long bow. "Of course not," he said. "I will do as you asked."

He left, giving Petyr the time to revise his plan, to check for holes. _There are none_, a gleeful voice told himself. It had not all gone according to plan. He had to improvise, to take decisions harsh, to gamble everything for gains marginal. It was not smooth sailing, but all waters to home were rocky.

_I'm not alone,_ he kept reminding himself, to ward off the fear. He had five-thousand Arryns inside the Red Keep, and a thousand Second Sons on his side. Dorne would not oppose him. He had sent Ellaria Sand battle strategies; promised her Dorne would be granted safe passage through the Mud Gate, and had delivered on that.

"The Queen commands you to stall, not attack the Dornishmen," Petyr recalled telling the lieutenants of the Windblown. "You are not to attack unless we order you to." They had hired fifteen-thousand men, yes, but loyalties of sellswords were as fickle as the wind. Ellaria Sand would know he had done her a good turn.

Ellaria had conquered the Stormlands, which meant the Crown already had Dorne and Storm's End on its side. If there came the need to solidify the alliance with her, he had another good turn up his sleeve. Dorne wished to be an independent country, ruled by its own men, before the marriage of Princess Myria Martell to King Daeron II. _For the sake of keeping six kingdoms, I can give away one._

He even had the Righteous Saviors keeping him on the throne. Mhaegen the Maiden was a tougher nut to crack than he thought, but he was off to a good start. His plans for the city's commerce (and more importantly, the bag of gold dragons) would have registered with her on some level. The Righteous Saviors did not like him as much as he hoped, but after Cersei Lannister, any king looked a god.

Randyll Tarly, bless him, would back the crown even if his family were held under swords. He would secure for him the allegiance of Highgarden. Robin Arryn would give him the Vale. Casterly Rock may produce complications – Harys Swyft, the castellan, was not more than wrinkles and old bones, but Jaime Lannister was still alive. Petyr knew the Kingslayer was without his sister, without army, without hand, without support of the people, even bound by oath as Kingsguard. He would grant him sanctuary in his home, but should he attempt mutiny, crushing him would be easy. _The man has no political mind._

As he went north, alliances became hazier. His plans for the Riverlands had been foiled. Petyr thought of Andar Royce, the fool who tried to manipulate Robin and seize control of the Vale from him. His plan was to make Yohn Royce Warden of the Riverlands, and once Daenerys killed him, for Andar to be selected by Petyr as Riverrun's successor. Petyr pictured Andar's cunt face; trying to measure ruling the Riverlands against his pointless game with Robin in the Eyrie. _The man hasn't taken a true gamble in his life. He would have taken Riverrun with both hands._

But he had underestimated Sansa, Brienne, and the Blackfish. They had sabotaged his plans. Petyr had carefully cushioned his betrayal of King Edmure Tully with many promises to Sansa. He promised her he was Cersei's enemy, that he would kill her. He showed her the Blackfish, alive in his protection, away from the Lannisters. Petyr thought that would be enough to make Sansa believe he was helping the realm, and not himself, but he was wrong.

On their journey from the Twins to King's Landing, when he did not see Brienne beside Sansa, he knew she had sent her to watch over Brynden. He had chosen not to interfere. _It still could have swung my way,_ Petyr thought with rue. The weather was too fierce for either Brienne or Brynden to survive. House Tully would have fallen… but the smirking eunuch somehow managed to find them in snowbound lands. What more, he even found Edmure's wife and babe. Daenerys roasted Riverrun, and cost him an ally at the Neck. _I won the war, but Varys won that battle._

When it came to Winterfell, Bran's return had made things much easier for Baelish. He was worried Sansa would be the sole Stark alive, what with Jon Snow being as reckless as he wanted. But Bran would keep the north together instead. Petyr knew nothing of the Stark boy, but he knew northern lords, that they would stand up for him. _I saved their skins at the battle at Winterfell, after all._

He had won the game, but he knew it could have gone wrong. If Daario Naharis and his dragonbinder had not made it in time, Daenerys would have won the war with ease. It was just as well Petyr made allies with the northerners, the Vale and Ellaria Sand. If Daenerys had his life under her mercy, they would have stood up for him, mayhaps even offered him a seat in the Council, and Petyr could continue playing the game as Master of Coin.

He would not thank the gods for his fortune. All that he had achieved was down to him. After the Battle of the Bastards, any other man would have waited out the snows, left seeds to sprout until winter was over. Instead he was active, never pausing his moves, never allowing the other players time to catch up. He recalled the raven he had sent to Cersei Lannister, the promise he would create war between Stark and Targaryen in return for being named her Hand. _I had been away from the capital for too long._

Cersei was desperate. The assent could not have come any sooner.

Delivering on that promise was easy, but expensive. Petyr's network of spies was not as comprehensive as the Spider's, but he had heard interesting tales from the House of Black and White, of the careless servant of Braavos who once wore the name of Stark. He needed a Faceless Man to kill one of Daenerys' men, but it could not be any man. It needed to be the Stark.

Hiring her to kill the three Freys, Tyrion Lannister and Cersei nearly bankrupted the Vale's finances, but it had to be done. _Winning always comes at a cost._

For a moment, he had considered killing Varys instead of the Imp. After Tywin died, they were the greatest players of the game left, and it would have been poetic justice to use him as pawn for his plans.

But Petyr had no time for poetry. He kept sentiments aside when playing the game, and that would mean killing the Targaryen's Hand over her Master of Whisperers. Those sentiments were best saved for Sansa.

Sansa. Her flickering loyalties made him still unsure if Winterfell would stay in his hands. He ought to trust her more than he did. She was heavily guarded in her chambers by Brienne and her household guard. Petyr had some Arryn men keeping a lookout. If she would try to profit from the chaos he had so carefully honed, he would know of it.

Sansa was in the way, but he would not stop trying to conquer her. She was the woman Westeros thought he was not worthy of, so he would do everything in his power to prove them wrong. She was turning out to be a better game than the one for the throne. _She knows that I care for her, but she refuses to move the way I wish her to._ But there was hope. If Jon was slain at the Wall, she would have nowhere to turn to but to him. Time may heal the bloody trail of his rise to power. If not that, the lust of being Queen of Westeros would help.

_All Hail House Mockingbird,_ he pictured the bards say. Everyone would hate it, but they would say it anyway.

**3\. King's Landing**

The morning rays matured, although the light was not strong enough to cut through cold winds. Varys was surrounded with tents; his ears open to the distant din of sword on steel. It had been going for hours now. They must be close to the end. He felt frigid arms tighten upon themselves, even though outer tents faced harsher winds than he. _Gods,_ thought he. _It must be hell at the Wall._

Beside him was Missandei. Varys yet processed the news she had just told her. "You're certain?" he said, an ear still on the battle, the screeching dragon, the charging hooves.

"Yes," she said, gleefully. "At first, I believed the upset stomach was because of the travels. It is not so. Her breasts heave. Her belly swells slightly. We are indeed blessed."

"Indeed." The succession was safe, and so were his worries. Hand to the Queen was an office that flattered his gifts. Tyrion's murder had given him the badge of golden fingers, but he knew it was to be brief, until the war was over. Tyrion was an Imp, but a lion of House Lannister – Varys had no titles, no sworn swords, only whispers.

Daenerys, he supposed, had thoughts of naming Jon Snow her Hand once the war was over, but the pregnancy would mean he may be named her husband. Either way, Varys would not have to sit the ugly iron chair.

The hooves increased now. They came in their direction.

"The war is won," Varys said to Missandei. "That must be Qhono and the other bloodriders with the news."

Silently they waited. The voices increased slowly, then rapidly. It came to a crescendo… and then decreased again, as if the riders had left. New noise replaced it. The noise of chaos in nearby tents.

"What is going on?" Missandei asked. An Unsullied lieutenant, one of three-thousand guarding them, entered their tents. "There is a problem, Lord Hand," he said shortly. "A horde of Dothraki flee from the Rosby Road. Should this one march to the battlefield with the rest of the men?"

The confusion he felt turned to fright. "At once," he said. "And take us with you."

Swiftly they rode through the Rosby Road, leaving tents erected. _The Dothraki do not flee from battle, not unless they find their khaleesi weak._ Was the war effort in trouble? Did something happen to the dragon? Had Cersei used wildfire? He hoped they would not be too late.

When they reached, the war was over.

Varys had seen many battlefields. He had already covered his face with black cloth, constricting his nose from breathing the bodies, leaving spare space for eyes. They trotted past where the Iron Gate once stood. Smoke covered their eyes, but not enough to hide the ruins of Flea Bottom and the Red Keep. Varys struggled to steer his horse through a path not strewn with charred corpses or sticky blood. He heard Missandei vomit beside. _Poor girl,_ he thought. _I should have warned her._

Ellaria Sand's Dornishmen were the only army on the battlefield. "We broke through the Mud Gate," she said grimly. "We hardly lost a hundred men. All the Windblown did was hide, stall and beg for time, as Littlefinger said they would. The Second Sons were no match for us, not after their commander died."

It took Varys more time than necessary to comprehend what she had said. "_The Second Sons?_"

Ellaria took them back to the threshold of the ruined Iron Gate, where he found him. Varys would not have recognized Daario Naharis if he hadn't taken a closer look. His chest had cracked, and from it escaped cool smoke. The inside of his mouth was blacker than the walls of Harrenhal. Varys looked at the fallen Second Sons, another realization dawning on him like a dull thud. _Dragon's Bay will be in riots, and Daenerys' empire dust._ The shattered ruins of a horn lay beside and Varys, at once, recognized the legendary object.

"Where is Drogon?" he asked Ellaria Sand, suddenly gripped with fear. "_And where is Queen Daenerys?_"

Ellaria, who already seemed solemn for someone who had won the battle, mutely rode away. Varys and Missandei followed her. _I hope she leads us to the Iron Throne, where Daenerys sits with Cersei's head on a spike_, Varys pleaded with himself. He had planned too much for this perfect picture to go horribly wrong.

As the first smatterings of cold rain struck King's Landing, Ellaria Sand abruptly halted near a pit. Varys glanced inside it.

She had lost her legs, and only had one arm intact. The braids she wore as she won more victories had been burned. The dragon seemed to be cradling the queen, but even in death, they did not look at peace. Varys thought it apt. Peace was a luxury Westeros had lost.

"I'm sorry," Ellaria was saying. "Cersei Lannister will die for this. We still outnumber her." To which Varys sullenly replied, "We do, but once we make her pay, who sits the Iron Throne?"

He heard a cry of wail from afar, and realized Missandei was not with either of them. Varys went over to her. The rains had increased, and rivers of blood had made the path slippery. He maintained his balance as he reached her. "Missandei," he said, but he stopped when he saw Grey Worm's corpse in her desperate arms.

The rains wept. Varys imagined they did just as hard in Meereen.

**4\. King's Landing**

The world was a jape, one person's comedy and for others a farce. It laughed at men who tried to be better than they were taught. A babe's birthright was destined from which wench's legs he squirmed through. It had taught him no bastard or lowborn could contest for their liege lord's chair, forget the seat of the Seven Kingdoms.

There was a time when Petyr Baelish was fool enough to believe that. He used to picture the blood of the gods in their veins, bright and gold in shade. But he knew men now. He lived with their vices, read their secrets, saw through the paragons of virtue they carefully canvassed themselves to be. Some men were good, most rotten.

Petyr was under no illusions. He was no good man… but good men make bad kings.

_Fuck what the world thinks of mockingbirds,_ he thought, as he saw the Iron Throne welcoming him, empty save his crown. Rains pattered on the swords, on the floor of the empty and roofless Great Hall. The winds were howling now that the roofs were bare, but Petyr felt no cold. Only warmth.

This time there would be no Robert, no Joffrey, no Cersei and no Varys to stop him.

This was for all the maesters, the lords and commonfolk who kept alive the lie, who kept faith in gods and unwritten rules, who stripped anyone that tried to make the climb of support. He would be an ugly blemish in their minds, he thought, chest swelling with pride. He had spent his life tolerating his emotions and suppressing his ego with the purpose in mind. Now that he was triumphant, and his enemies were ashes, he allowed himself the second of pride.

It could have been the howling winds, the deafening rain, or maybe Petyr's pride cost him his senses, but when he heard the quick scurrying of steps, it was already too near.

Agonizing pain shot through his heels, making him fall. _Quick, my dagger,_ he thought, reaching for his sheath. A flash of white, another excruciating yell, and the fingers that had reached for his blade were afire with pain. Petyr tried to get up, to cry for help, but the growls of the direwolf kept him frightful. If the rains were not pouring on him with such ferocity, he would have fainted.

"You should have accounted for Ghost," a voice screamed from the howling winds, the voice he knew too well. "I don't need my household guard to kill your watchers."

_Sansa… again_. He had tried all he could. He had won her the war at Winterfell, kept Brynden Tully alive and would offer her the chance of being Queen. He feebly turned in the direction of her. "Why?" was all he could say. _Why do you not move the way I want you to?_

"Remember what you said to me at the Twins?" she said, in eyes and tones without remorse. "That Cersei Lannister was your enemy, and you must keep your enemies close." She paused. "The night you betrayed the Tullys was when I knew what I had to do. You were too clever, you had your fingers in every pie. You have to be stopped. You would kill Cersei, sure, but you would also kill Daenerys if she had won, or me if I did not act according to your wishes."

"Kill _you_?" he said indignantly. "Tell me one thing," he said, trying to etch hate on his eyes. "_I_ freed you from Joffrey. _I_ killed Lysa Arryn for you. _I_ won you your home. I offer you my heart, and you commit treason? What could I possibly owe you now? What can make you so fucking ungrateful?"

Petyr hoped that his show of emotion would make a difference. Sansa was unmovable. "All you did was for you," she said simply. "You didn't offer me a heart. You don't even have one." She removed a blade. "I passed the sentence," she began.

Petyr had to use the last throw of the dice. "_Listen to me_," he said urgently, hoping she would believe him, "I know where Arya is. Your sister is alive. Do you want to see her again?"

He expected another snappy reply from Sansa, and the silver blade to scythe him. His claims were, without context, absurd, but he could feel he had grabbed her attention. He looked into her eyes._ It is the truth._

He heard another pair of quick feet.

"Listen to yourself, would you?" came Sansa Stark's voice.

There was a flash of silver, and all became black.

**3\. King's Landing**

Jaime Lannister wondered if his eyes had betrayed himself. Standing there as cold hail showered on him from the skies, watching Petyr Baelish's blood run rivers to his feet, the look on Sansa Stark's face. He could not tell if it was stony or shocked.

They had still not seen him, but he approached them with no signs of stopping. "…meant to slash his throat…" Sansa was telling Brienne, when growls of her bloody direwolf alerted them. Sansa turned and saw Jaime in the eye. She was silent, uncertain how to proceed. Brienne spoke. "It had to be done."

Jaime looked at the fallen man again. Only the hilt was visible, protruding from his ear like the horns of a bull. The rest of the blade was lodged in his brains. A pool of crimson water filled Littlefinger's mouth, still open in shock. He wondered if Tyrion had died like this.

"Why?" was all he could say. "This is treason…"

"What _he_ did was treason." Jaime looked up from Littlefinger's corpse. Sansa was talking with much more vigor now. "He had to be stopped. A man like him could not be king."

Jaime caught the glint of gold on the Iron Throne. He saw the crown rested there. The words of Sansa registered next.

_King?_

Jaime looked at Sansa. The girl had just realized what she had revealed, and quickly broke the glance. "They found her slain with the Clegane brothers," Brienne said delicately. "Everyone in the Red Keep knows. I'm so sorry."

For a second Jaime was twenty years back in time, when Aerys Targaryen lay in a pool of his own blood, the day his hell of rash judgments and the sneers of stuck-up men had begun. He had wondered if his sword slayed the Mad Queen, would the bards be kinder. He thought his sister could be the answer to his problems. The sister who made his hell livable, the sister who made it worse, the sister who deserved the best and the worst…

But Jaime had no time to be sorry. He heard quick sets of footsteps approaching the Throne Room. _Dickon, Mhaegen and Qyburn_, Jaime thought. _It had to be_. He thought of his lamentations when he saw the corpse of Daenerys. No, a firm voice in him said. His indecision would not ruin the life of another.

As the footsteps neared, Jaime plunged his left hand into Littlefinger's bloody mouth. "What are you doing?" Sansa exclaimed, but Brienne was silent. She didn't have to say it, but they both knew what he was doing, what he was about to do.

The direwolf bounded away as they came. It was not only the Small Council, but also Varys, Ellaria Sand and a few Dornishmen. They saw the dead Littlefinger, and then him. Jaime looked at them without flinching. "They tried to stop me," he said, gesturing at Sansa and Brienne, "but after I learned he hired Sandor Clegane to kill my sister, there was only one way this was going to go."

Their countenances changed from puzzlement to revulsion, a look he knew well. _When a man starts slaying kings, he cannot stop_, he could hear them think. It did not matter to him. "Kill me and be done with it," he said. Mayhaps he could jape with Tyrion or kill his sweet sister in the seven hells.

But, as the silence increased, Jaime realized no one knew what was to be done next. Slowly, all of their eyes went to the Iron Throne, as if hoping the chair of swords would start speaking and pass judgment on the Kingslayer.

Everyone saw it empty. No one dared seat it. _What do you do when the conqueror wins the war, but loses their life?_ They all turned to her Hand.

Varys spoke, slicing through the cold silence. "If the roof of the Small Council Chamber is still intact, might I suggest we speak there?"

**6\. King's Landing**

Brienne stood guard outside Sansa's chambers while she changed from wet clothes. King's Landing was otherwise abuzz with activity – the shouts of workmen laying quick supports to stop the Red Keep from caving in, the burning of bodies lost in war, the chants outside the castle after the fall of Flea Bottom, but the events of the past hour had dulled her senses.

Brienne's mind was awash with doubts. She remembered Sansa's stony face, showing nothing but hate and horror. Littlefinger was perhaps no man to trust, but neither seemed Sansa. She ignored his justifications and killed him without trial. _The first man she killed_, Brienne thought, _but if I didn't know better, I would not have thought it._

Jaime's words came back to Brienne, a cruel reminder. _So many vows… they make you swear and swear. No matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow or the other._ Brienne wondered how Sansa felt about his predicament. Would she vouch for him when the Council debated if Jaime should be put to the sword? Or would she want to wipe her hands clean of the Kingslayer, now that she had no use for him?

A messenger arrived, reminding Brienne that the council were ready and waiting for her. When he left, Brienne realized Sansa was taking longer than she expected. "Lady Sansa?" she asked, knocking on the doors.

The sound was low, but unmistakable. When she heard the sniffs, Brienne entered quickly.

Sansa turned away the moment Brienne entered, but she had already caught a glimpse of the tears. Brienne felt relief coarse through her veins, not only because her suspicion of Sansa in danger was unfounded, but because the lady she served was, at least, capable of repenting.

"Is this about Petyr?" she asked.

The long silence answered Brienne's question. Finally, Sansa spoke. "Only I could do it," she said. "His only weakness was me. If it were you, or Cersei, or anyone, he would have seen it coming." She looked at Brienne, tears wiped away. "I had killed pigeons in practice for this moment," she said, "but do you know what? Even after all that I knew, and all that I knew I must do, I still may not have done it." Her face hardened. "But when he tried to use Arya to trick my mind…"

Her voice trailed away. Brienne chose to keep the silence, not because she sensed Sansa wanted to confess something more, but because she did not know what to say. But when Sansa did not seem like saying anything more, she had to prod her. "What happens now?"

Sansa looked at Brienne, her eyes refocusing. "Now I hope to seven hells that Mhaegen stays true to her gods, and that winter did not come for my brother on the Wall."

**7\. King's Landing**

When he saw his queen's body, Varys allowed himself a few moments of grief, but by the time the council chamber was full, his mind was active again, his decision made. The only question was, would the others agree?

Varys had studied everyone carefully. Qyburn and Dickon were utterly shorn of influence at the capital. They would likely sway with the majority. Missandei was in grief, but would probably follow Varys' plans for the throne, once she knew what it was.

Mhaegen and Ellaria were certain problems. From what he heard of Mhaegen the Maiden, her allegiance to her gods were fickle, swaying between the Righteous Saviors and the Lord of Light. Having said that, she was Master of Men, and the only person inside the Red Keep the rioters outside would not want dead.

Ellaria's army was the only survivor of the war, and probably the strongest contender to the Iron Throne. Varys did not think the throne interested her much, but the lust of power could sway anybody. Varys did not trust the Sand Snakes much, and resolved to keep them away from the throne.

The only true highborn here, if one could discount the imprisoned Kingslayer, was Sansa Stark. Her mind intrigued the Spider's most of all. Varys' plans for the realm included her, but it took two to spar. Were her childhood memories of the capital too traumatic, or would she support a Stark on the Iron Throne?

It was now, when ladies and lowborns looked at the eunuch to begin the dialogue, that Varys appreciated the power of being Hand. Sansa Stark, Ellaria Sand, Mhaegen, Dickon Tarly, Qyburn and Missandei waited for him. Even Jaime Lannister was in the room, albeit in chains, disinterestedly awaiting his fate.

"Queen Daenerys took great value in the words of her councilors," Varys began. "I am sure that she, like me, would like to know what your wishes are for the future." _Yes, and especially the three of you_, Varys thought, eyes at Sansa, Mhaegen and Ellaria.

Mhaegen spoke first. "Fuck what the highborn think," she said haughtily. "Flea Bottom is a hole in the ground. We don't want another lord or lady sitting the Iron Throne," she said, looking pointedly at Ellaria Sand, "we want a king of our choosing."

"Which will be you?" Ellaria snapped, offended by Mhaegen's earlier accusatory glance. "Do you think Brandon the Blackfish or Randyll Tarly will bend the knee to an upjumped wench?"

"Not me," she retorted. "The man who fulfills the prophecy of ice and fire. The man who fights to bring us the dawn. The Prince that was Promised."

Sansa nodded. "Jon Snow."

A collective silence fell at this, and it was then Varys realized how much narrative had been woven with the man. Varys himself, with his birds in the north, found it hard to separate fact from fiction. The name even seemed to mean something to Qyburn and Ellaria.

Ellaria Sand voiced that concern. "Resurrections, dragons, prophecies, and an army of the dead?" she challenged. "The last I heard, our queen was ready to wage war against him. There is too much of him we don't know. Mayhaps there is some fire at the heart of the smoke. Mayhaps there isn't, and he's just a bastard."

"I know my brother," Sansa argued fiercely. "I grew up with him at Winterfell. He can be cold and sullen, but his heart is true. He is a man of honor. You call him a bastard? That bastard rose as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. The bastard was named king of all the north. We sit here wondering who leads men, but Jon Snow fights to save _all_ men, not just the ones who bend the knee."

Varys could scarce believe his luck. _This ship steers the right way_, he thought, gleefully. _Time to bring it home._ He tried to bring Missandei into the discussion. "Queen Daenerys valued your opinion very highly," Varys spoke kindly to her, "and so do we."

Missandei chose her words. "I am but a scribe from Naath," she said. "I follow the wishes of Queen Daenerys, in life and death. True, they warred, but she made peace with Jon when she saw him for who he was. Jon bent the knee to her." She shared an awkward glance with Varys' brooch of golden fingers before continuing. "She had also planned to name him Hand when the war was over."

With Sansa, Mhaegen, Varys and Missandei convinced, a general murmur of assent followed. _It was not the Targaryen restoration I had hoped for,_ he thought, the image of Daenerys' torn limbs returning to his memory, _but it is the best chance for peace._ He cared not how true tales of White Walkers and resurrections were. He had known Jon for a brief time at Barrowton, and every occasion reminded of Eddard Stark. _I could not save Lord Stark, but I am in a position to save him._ "We must send riders and ravens to the Wall and summon him to court," he said.

Ellaria Sand was still skeptical. "A Sand can rule Dorne, but can a Snow rule all of Westeros?"

"Not just any Snow," Varys said, remembering the night he survived Drogon's flames on the rooftops of Barrow Hall. "The bastard child of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, the only one in Westeros with the blood of the dragon."

**8\. The Wall**

Days passed into weeks. Life tried hard to become normal.

The Long Night was over, but Samwell Tarly spent longer nights tending to the injured or nearly dead. It had taken a day for all the fallen bodies to be moved to Mole's Town, where he treated them. Riders kept riding from the Wall to the village to ask him of the health of their mates.

It took a week for Ser Davos Seaworth to rise from his sleep, although all he saw was black. "Don't worry," Samwell recalled telling Davos the day he gained consciousness, "you've lost your eyesight, not your life." It had still taken him an hour to calm him.

Samwell's only company, apart from sickly, dying men was Gilly. They made love almost every night now, under moons crescent and full. _If my vows allowed me to marry her, I would have done it many moons ago,_ Sam thought, whenever he saw the moonlight shine on her supple skin. _The vows never allowed you to make love with her either,_ a nasty voice reminded him, which Sam ignored.

Until Maesters Harmune from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and Mullin from the Shadow Tower arrived to help, Samwell felt the most important man in Westeros. As news of the battle spread and fictions became fact, even Oldtown sent Maester Roone, which gave Sam the time to ride for Queensgate.

With Castle Black a ruin, Queensgate became their temporary home. They had planned for this moment, shifting food and resources before the White Walkers had attacked, but it was still too cramped and small for shelter. To add to the confined spaces, to their surprise, were voluntary recruits, men now proud to stake their swords for the Night's Watch.

Samwell had expected the mood to be celebratory, but there were yet remnants from the battle. Huge crossbows had been crafted at Jon's insistence, raised to the skies for fear of the ice dragon's return. The Night's Watch held stricter patrols than ever. There were no feasts yet, only constant vigilance. Nobody wanted to voice the possibility that the dead were dead.

Some days after he returned, they had burned all the slain men, along with Dolorous Edd and Thoros of Myr. "And now their watch has ended," a chorus of somber voices spoke, before Rhaegal lit the funeral pyre.

Tormund Giantsbane was voted the thousandth Lord Commander of the Wall, and first of Queensgate. "You'll hate it more than I did," Jon Snow told him, smiling, "but if we had a wildling Lord Commander in the past, maybe Castle Black would still be standing."

"_Har_, I'll see to that now," Tormund said. His first decisions as Lord Commander were to rebuild the fallen chunks of the Wall and Castle Black. "That will take months!" an aghast builder said, to which the red-bearded wildling incredulously replied, "Decades! And it's Lord Commander to you, you twat!"

As the days passed, Samwell noted Jon's mood improve steadily. Even though he watched from the top of the Wall every night, and sent ravens that found no reply, he became gradually cheerier, soon japing with him and Davos. "You should fly for Winterfell soon," Samwell told him once, while they were on their nightly patrols. "You have not seen Bran since he returned, and the war seems over."

Jon was still skeptical. "Maybe," he said. "The nights do seem warmer." He paused. "What will you do?"

"I don't know," Sam said, even though he had a pretty good idea. "I think I will go back to Oldtown. I only have one chain of silver, and Gilly and me miss little Sam." He paused. "Maybe, if I find the time, I could write a book."

"A book?" Jon asked, curious. "About what?"

"About… _this_. The war for the dawn. The White Walkers. So that, even in the thousands of years to follow, an Archmaester may read it and not think it myth or fancy." He hesitated. "It may not only be about this-"

The hurried steps interrupted him. "My lord," said Elron, a member of the Night's Watch, to Jon, "riders come from the capital. They arrive with… news."

Samwell had accompanied Jon at every step. He read the scrolls the riders bore. He read the news of the deaths of Petyr Baelish, Cersei Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen. There was not enough time to overcome the shock… making them completely unprepared for the riders' next words. _Jon Snow? Summoned to King's Landing?_

With most of the royalty dead, Sam realized there could only be one reason he was called to the city. Jon, when he realized it too, looked like he wanted to hide in a crevice of the Wall.

But the decision had been made, the court awaited him, and so did Jon's sister. When Jon asked for time, all the rider did, with as much deference as possible, was insist. "This is a very precarious time, Your Grace," he said. "Lady Sansa sits the Iron Throne as Queen Regent, but the people clamor for you. She merely keeps the seat warm."

And that was that. Jon had packed his belongings, said his farewells and prepared to fly to a place he had never been. The look in his eyes when he heard of Daenerys' death had only become duller. "I can come with you," Samwell said earnestly. "You'll need your mates there, won't you?"

Jon smiled sadly. "Be with Gilly," he told him. "Go to Oldtown. Meet little Sam, read your books, claim your chains and take Maester Aemon's place someday. You must do your duty, as I go to do mine."

"But who will you go with?"

"Davos speaks of wanting to return to his wife at Cape Wrath," Jon said, as Samwell caught sight of the Onion Knight waiting next to the huge dragon, cautiously feeling his surroundings with his cane. "He can help me for a while before he goes home. It is the least I can do for him, after the ordeals he has been through."

The rider from the capital rushed Jon as politely as he could, and Samwell Tarly knew it was time to say goodbye. "Well… until we meet again," he said, extending an awkward hand.

Jon hugged him. "_When_ we meet again."

**9\. The Riverlands**

Mercy regained consciousness when they were well away from King's Landing. She recognized the roads she had taken on the way to the capital. Some of the snow had melted away and the winds were kinder, but her arm still hurt badly, and she was too tired to speak with her companions. All she did was eat what was offered, and sleep soundly on the wayn.

The first day she could speak, she asked them if her arm would work again. It was hanging limp in a sling, and she could not move it yet, even though she felt the pain. She asked if the Dead God was pleased, and her services to Braavos over. They said yes to both.

She had decided to call herself Mercy. Arya Stark was dead and she was not no one anymore, but she had to wear a new name to an old face.

On the second day, she asked them if they were going where she had asked. "We are," her companion replied, a small and stout woman. "We'll go through the woods, because we cannot risk going through any of the overland routes."

"Why not?"

"The king," the other companion said, a long thin man with a hooked nose but a weak goatee. "He flies for King's Landing on a dragon. People have come out in hordes, jamming all the roads, hoping he stops for supper at their homes." He gave a light chuckle. "I've seen many things in my life, but I never thought I'd see a bastard seat the throne of Westeros."

_Jon_, she thought sadly, remembering her final dialogue with him at the Wall. But that was all in the past. Her name was Mercy now, and Mercy was going to let go of Arya Stark, even the moments that made Arya's life worth living.

**10\. Winterfell**

Brandon Stark travelled far and wide. At times he had to wish hard, imagine every flake of snow before the picture materialized. Sometimes they appeared on mere whims.

He saw the first Archmaesters of Oldtown, poring over their books like sages. He saw Brandon the Builder and the construction of the mammoth wall of ice, magic and stone. He saw hot bubbles of the frothing Smoking Sea, the wizards of Braavos with no name nor face, the dragons of Valyria and wyverns of Sothoryos.

Bran had stopped trying to break loose of the weirwood's magic. He would learn to harness it, like the Three-Eyed Raven, but that would come with time and temperance, and when he would master that, he suspected, time would have lost all sense to him.

He fought with himself against peeking into the future. He did not want to see if White Walkers would rise from the ice again, or if there would be another dance with dragons. But once, curiosity prevailed, and Bran chose to look ahead.

The woman had firm breasts and auburn hair. She looked straight at him with soft green eyes, sad and desperate. _Sansa,_ Bran realized too late, as the godswood of Winterfell materialized around him. For the first time in a while, Bran tried hard to break the shackles of magic, to tell her it was all right, to fix her aghast face, but all he could do was stare. The sight made Bran sad, and the tree wept with him.

He plunged back into the past.

The man had the hair of shining silver. He was tall, and his eyes a dark indigo. "Aegon Targaryen," he said to a woman nursing a newborn babe in a great wooden bed. "What better name for a king?"

The woman looked weak but happy. Bran recognized her as the same woman who bled at the Tower of Joy. "Will you make a song for him, husband?" Lyanna asked.

"He has a song," replied Rhaegar Targaryen. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire."

**11\. King's Landing**

King's Landing was chaos, and Sansa Stark found herself putting out fires whenever she held court. She couldn't stop or leave them for her brother to fix. Jon would be a great king if the people in the Small Council were loyal to him. Sansa needed to lay those foundations before he was here.

After the facts of the battle at the Wall became clearer, Mhaegen's support for Jon had turned to adoration. Sansa had erased Cersei's manufactured 'Master of Men' title and named her Master of Laws. _She would choose poison over betraying the king she calls her god._

Varys was renamed Master of Whisperers. The eunuch still played his games, never revealing full secrets to Sansa or anyone. As time went on, however, she felt the Spider's trust in her increase. "If only Lord Eddard Stark liked playing the game as much as Your Grace," he told her once, to which Sansa instinctively replied, "I don't anymore." It was true. Sitting the Iron Throne was worse than she thought it would be.

For Master of Ships Sansa had summoned Paxter Redwyne from Riverrun, and to solidify the alliance with Dorne, promised Ellaria Sand that Obara would be named Master of Coin. Qyburn was still Grand Maester because of lack of alternatives, but Sansa had already sent ravens to Oldtown requesting another. Poor Qyburn wandered around the corridors of the Red Keep like a man emasculated, without allies or aims, knowing his days were numbered. She would have felt sorry for him if she didn't know of the experiments.

The three thousand Unsullied of Daenerys Targaryen's army formed the new City Watch, led by Dickon Tarly. It was easy for Sansa to take the young man under her wing. He was isolated, intimidated by the Crown, and unknown to the power he commanded. Jon would have no trouble from his closest friend's brother.

Jaime Lannister had been pardoned but stripped of his knighthood and title as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It was Sansa's only unpopular decision, but she knew she had to make it. She took all criticisms on the chin. _He is the only survivor of House Lannister. When he goes back to Casterly Rock, he will not forget the favor I gave him._ Either Jon or Sansa would have to make the decision… and better her, than the future king of Westeros.

When Sansa approached Brienne, she already seemed to know before Sansa said the words. "No," she said. "Any honor of serving the Kingsguard has been stained."

"Bring it back," Sansa said. "Not since Barristan Selmy has the Kingsguard been more deserving of a knight like you."

"I'm not a knight," she said. _No,_ Sansa thought. _You're better._

The Dragon Queen had been cremated, as was tradition with Targaryens, but there was no Sept of Baelor to bury the ashes in. Builders were assigned with the reconstruction. Against Mhaegen's wishes, who said they build a Temple worshipping the Lord of Light, Sansa insisted the Sept worship the Seven Gods. "Change is good," she told her, "but sweeping change is not."

The Silent Sisters worked on Cersei and Petyr, tending to their bodies while the Sept was built. Some basic foundations were erected, but not nearly enough for the purpose of funerals. The memorials would instead happen in the Throne Room. Sansa supposed the Sept may take a decade to be fully built. _Mayhaps there would be a statue of King Jon in front of it,_ she thought, stifling a chuckle at her brother's reaction to it.

With the fires Sansa had to put out, she scarce had time to think of Littlefinger. But whenever she was alone or with Ghost, Sansa remembered Petyr's open mouth, the pool of blood collecting inside. His words still haunted her. _What if he really knew where Arya was?_ the emotional side of Sansa asked, even if she knew it to be a lie.

Ghost reminded her of Winterfell, which often made her cry. Sansa hadn't met Bran since his return. She wanted to go home, but knew it would not be possible yet. When Jon returned, Sansa would be his Hand. Maybe she could convince him to let her return to Winterfell, but that would only happen after some months, after Jon found his feet.

But, as Jon neared the capital, the fires were finally out. Excitement among the people of King's Landing was almost palpable as their king neared. Commoners and royalty alike had all gathered in the Dragonpit, waiting for their savior, their hero, their god.

Sansa was excited herself. They had so much to speak of. She heard Jon had met Bran on the way to King's Landing. She heard the locals had feasted wherever he stopped for shelter. She wanted to tell him of the battle at the city, and hear about the battle for the dawn. War truly seemed over, and even winter was bearable.

When Rhaegal swooped in the Dragonpit, to huge applause and chants of _Prince_, it took all the strength in Sansa to not run to her brother and hug him by the neck. Ghost, limited by no such inhibitions, bounded to his master as soon as Jon dismounted from the dragon.

When Jon caught her eye, Sansa gave her a wide, beaming smile. It faltered when she saw his face.

It was grim, dark and sad, of a man who couldn't care less of all the power in Westeros. It was the face she knew well; the same face their father wore when duty overtook desire, of Robert Baratheon, for whom Seven Kingdoms did not fill the hole Lyanna left. It was the face of a man who had loved and lost.

**12\. King's Landing**

He had not gone to the Dragonpit to greet the king, instead choosing to stay at the Red Keep, packing his belongings. The privacy was valued to Jaime, who was mocked when he went to the streets, and shunned by council members inside the Red Keep. With Sansa occupied with matters of the realm, the only ones polite to them were servants whose only jobs were to bow low. He was free, but only as free as a Lannister was in Westeros.

He ought to be grateful. Jaime Lannister had managed to escape from this war with his head still between his shoulders, a minor miracle in itself. Yet he did not feel fortunate. All he felt was hate, and no one to point it at. Cersei was gone. Tyrion, Father, Uncle Kevan, all gone, all bickering in the afterlife without him. He had never been more alone.

Jaime had not spoken with Brienne since the sack of King's Landing. He could not tell if he avoided her or she, him. Her words kept ringing in his ears. _There are few knights who have saved the lives of half a million people._ They were the only words that gave him comfort. They almost embarrassed him from facing her.

The funeral service for his sister was done in the Throne Room. He recalled the Silent Sisters and newly selected septons perform their duties as Sansa and the Small Council watched on; people who all hated her. _You did too_, a voice reminded him. _If it weren't for the Hound, you would have turned King as well as Queenslayer._

Jaime felt it mandatory to visit the new king before he left. He found the Stark bastard in his chambers. Sansa, Brienne and an old, blind man were with him. "I trust the capital has been kind, Your Grace?" he said, by means of introduction.

Jon Snow turned. "It has," he said, giving a feeble smile.

_Give it time._ "Lady Sansa has been very hospitable," he said, "but I must make haste to Casterly Rock. Harys Swyft, the castellan, is too old and sickly to be managing the Westerlands." He gave a bow, and quickly caught the startling blue eyes of Brienne for the last time.

And just like that, he left.

The thought of Casterly Rock gave Jaime some comfort. It was the place he was raised, the hub of his childhood dreams, where he once believed knights were gallant and young princesses pure on the inside. It was his only surrogate for happiness left.

"Ser Jaime!" Brienne's voice called out from behind. Jaime turned quickly, and felt his fingers perspire. _It's only Jaime_, he thought sullenly. "I trust you have heard that Lady Sansa offered me your position, of Commander of the Kingsguard," she said.

"I have," Jaime said. The day he heard the news was the day he began shunning Brienne. He still had no idea why.

Brienne looked slightly away, at Jaime's face but not his eyes. "I've decided to decline it," she said, and the warmth filled his veins. _You selfish fool_, Jaime immediately scolded himself. _Does it delight you that someone does not take your place?_ Jaime pondered, and then realized that was not the reason for his joy.

"I'm sad to hear it," Jaime lied. "Do you plan to stay at the capital for long?"

"No," she said. "I have not met my father, Lord Selwyn, for years. I imagine I will sail for Tarth to see him."

"Wonderful," Jaime replied. "You must visit Casterly Rock if you find the time." It was meant to be casual, courteous even, but he felt the vulnerability seep through his words, and it was in that moment Jaime Lannister realized he loved her back.

Brienne seemed to have understood the urgency in his words. Her smile was brief, but genuine. "Someday."

_Someday._

**13\. King's Landing**

The maesters had saved his life, but Davos Seaworth felt closer to death than ever before. Even though the Watchers on the Wall tried their best to blunt the sword, he knew his face was mangled and broken. Whenever he passed his fingers over it, he felt the rocky nose, the scars. He did not have the vision to see his face in the waters. The only things he could see were darkness and lesser darkness.

He stood with his cane, meant both for his eyesight and his balance, while the Starks spoke. "We need to summon the other lords and ladies to the capital," Sansa was telling Jon. "Jaime Lannister and Ellaria Sand have bent the knee, but Robin Arryn, Brynden Tully and Randyll Tarly need to. Varys tells me Yara Greyjoy means to wage war. Defeating her will be easy-"

"No," Jon said, immediately. "War breeds only more war. If you tell me the crown has its gold and allies, I'm sure we can sue for peace."

Davos had no sight, but he could feel the tension the conflict of interest had bred. "Jon," Sansa said, "the Greyjoys are by nature conquerors. If you ask them their terms, they would demand Winterfell or lands in the Reach. It is not only them – there is war brewing in the Riverlands. The Dothraki that fled from Daenerys' army are pillaging villages. Northern lords are restless because you bent the knee to Daenerys. The Lannisters are gone, but there will be more Lannisters. War never ends."

"Maybe it doesn't," Jon replied. "But that does not mean we cannot try. If the Dothraki cause problems in the Riverlands, we can send them ships to move to Essos. If there is tension among northern lords, I'm sure you are capable of diffusing it." He paused. "The people and the council saw me as their king. I never asked for it. But if I am to seat the Iron Throne, my priority is peace. As was Daenerys Targaryen's."

Davos agreed. The Great Wars were finally over, and now was a time for calm. Now was a time when babies were birthed and alliances strengthened by marriage. Westeros was too weary for another war.

"Davos," Jon said, to which the Onion Knight's ears perked. "We fought the White Walkers together, but our meeting was a happy accident. You were sworn to Stannis Baratheon before his death, loyal till the very end. I can think of no better honor than to bestow you the seat of Storm's End."

Davos felt sweet joy. "I am truly honored, Your Grace," he said. _And thankful._ He was fearful Jon would select him his Hand. That day would come soon, Davos envisaged, when Sansa would be forced to return to Winterfell and he would have a lordship in the Stormlands as well as a seat on the Council, like Renly Baratheon.

But for now, he was Lord of the Stormlands, together with his wife after years. The thought made the pain on his face and body dissolve. _I'm coming home, Marya._

**14\. King's Landing**

When Jon Snow began the journey from the Wall to King's Landing, he did what was expected. He smiled at awestruck men and spoke the right words. Highborn and fishmongers all reminded him of what he was worth to Westeros, of the task that awaited him. He was the rock which drowning men latched on, the walls of Winterfell to hold against a whirlpool of wintry winds, the sword in the darkness. _Chosen ones had no free will._

The roofs of the Throne Room were rebuilt for his coronation ceremony. Sansa Stark sat next to the empty throne of swords, and Council members on chairs beside. Commoners in the hall cheered as he entered. Jon did not hear them. He only had ears for the sighing breeze, the crying birds.

Everyone told him the Iron Throne was the promised land, that he had won, that he was the champion of death, a prince with a flaming sword, scourge of White Walkers. Jon Snow was no such thing. What he was, was desperately unfortunate.

The green boy in him once imagined this day, like all green boys did. Jon hated that boy now. His foster parents were gone. Daenerys was dead, Ygritte was dead. Arya, Robb, Rickon, all gone. Bran was a boy in a tree, lost to the world. _They all get to die, but I have to live?_

As he walked, he noticed Missandei from among the crowd. When Jon passed her, he was reminded of the debt he owed her, the debt he owed Daenerys Targaryen. "I will rescue Meereen if it's the last thing I do," he recalled telling her. The light in his eyes had left, but that would not stop him trying to bring it back into others.

As Jon neared the throne, Sansa stood, crown in hand. _Don't say it_, Jon pleaded in his mind, but his sister said it anyway. "I now proclaim Jon of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms."

As he ascended the steps, Jon Snow saw the sigils either side of the Iron Throne, the three-headed dragons. The sight made his heart flutter, reminding him what he was not. _It ought to have been a direwolf._

**15\. Winterfell**

The months had crawled like slow roaches, but Sansa Stark was finally home.

She had been granted leave for Winterfell sooner than she thought. She was there on the pretext of the crown, to appease Lyanna Mormont and Wyman Manderly's now vocal disapproval of Jon Snow's abandonment of Winterfell. But no feeble threats of war would stop Sansa from meeting her little brother first.

When matters with the northlands would be settled, Sansa would return to King's Landing. Jon needed her now more than ever. He was increasingly withdrawn, rarely interested in any matters beyond the realm. Even of Bran, Jon did not speak much. "He's well," he muttered dully, when Sansa asked of him, his tone worrying her much more than his words.

Sansa was relieved to leave the capital. Littlefinger still haunted her in dreams and day. She worried he had made plans beyond the grave, that Jaime or Brienne would somehow turn on her, that she would be charged with treason. It was only after she was leagues away from the capital did the dreams stop, and worries fade.

She met a woman she did not know in the castle. "You must be Meera Reed," she said, to which she nodded. "Where is Bran?" She had assumed he would greet her with Meera.

"In the godswood," she said. Her voice was pacified, mannerisms slow, as if cold winds beyond the Wall had taken away a wild spirit. She turned to take her to the woods, and Sansa Stark suddenly felt wary, as if in the woods hid Littlefinger's men waiting for revenge.

Sansa wondered if Bran would be taller than her, if the age would make him more Stark or Tully. "How is he?" she asked, as they went deeper into the woods. Meera seemed to struggle with a variety of words in her mind. "I don't know," she settled on, before she stopped abruptly in front of the weirwood tree.

When there was no one there, Sansa gave Meera a quizzical look. The woman mutely gestured to the tree, and after Sansa saw, she gave a cry of shock.

He was less a man than some ghastly statue of twisted wood. His hair had grown to his shoulders, turning as red as the leaves. The weirwood tree Sansa Stark once knew was mutilated, and it had taken her brother's boyhood with it.

"What is this?" she asked, aghast. "What in seven hells happened to him?"

Meera struggled for the right words again. "It's not a tale I can relate to you in an hour… or a day."

Sansa looked closer, waiting for signs of life. Bran's eyes were white, and moving ever so slightly. His lips murmured. She called out his name, but he didn't seem to hear. "Is he… alive?" she asked Meera. "Can he hear me?"

"I don't know."

Sansa tried hard to listen to Bran's whispering. She could not decipher a word. "What does he mutter?"

"It was clearer before, but in days lost its sense," Meera said. As Sansa saw fresh sap trickle from where sad weirwood eyes saw, Meera Reed spoke. "He says, _he is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire._"

**16\. Lannisport**

Mercy walked towards her docked boat through waters cold, picturing her feet leaving mushy prints beneath shallow waters. The thought made her giggle.

Her companions had left when she was on the outskirts of the city, after telling her where the ship was docked. Mercy made her way through Lannisport alone. It took her no trouble. Her arm was healed completely and the strength was back in her.

The city was alive and bustling, with winter not as strong near the coast. Mercy decided to scale abandoned towers and drink in the sights. She felt grateful for the chance to view the marvels of such a city before she left.

The docks were once abundant with activity. Ships sailed to Oldtown and Pyke, sailors yelled insults at their crew and little boys fled from merchants, fat purses under their ragged cloaks. But Mercy waited till dawn became dusk, till fishmongers and sealords called it a day, till the world belonged to her alone.

Mercy reached her boat, modest in size, packed already with potions, oars and the like. She gazed at the horizon. The last rays spilled lazily over salty waters, making the sky and the Sunset Sea a surfeit of dying orange lights. Excitement and longing filled her. She wondered if Nymeria felt what she did, when she led thousand-and-ten ships to Dorne. She suddenly felt Dornish in spirit, if not in flesh.

Mayhaps she would see the legendary kraken rise from the seas, fighting with sea dragons. Mayhaps she would find new isles and the bones of Brandon Stark, the king who sailed west to find new lands, never to be seen again. Mayhaps she would row far enough to reach the Shadow Lands, and discover the world was round. Or maybe her boat would tip over and the seas would show her no mercy.

That thought did not frighten her as much as it would have before. If she lost her life, it would be on her own terms… and that felt like conquering the God of Death itself.

**Alternate Game of Thrones concludes here…**

**Sincere thanks to those who were patient through twenty days of constant uploading. These 80,000 words have been as much a journey for you as for me. If you wish to discuss the books, the show or this fanfic, feel free to find me on Twitter AlternateGoT, email [alternategot at gmail dot com] or in the review section.**

**If you enjoyed it, please recommend it to those who you think will appreciate it!**


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